THE 

? 



POETICAL WORKS 

OF 

EOBEET BURNS. 

COMPLETE. 



WITH NUMEROUS ILLUSTRATIONS. 



LONDON: 
JOHN DICKS, 313, STRAND; AND ALL BOOKSELLERS. 

1868, 



A A 



Gift. 

MR. HUTCJiESON, 

Aek'l 2SMr'03 



TO THE PUBLIC. 



eet little need be said in introducing to the public such an edition of the popular Scotch bard's 
poems as the present one. It is the cheapest ever issued from the press, and will come within the 
means of the humblest and poorest members of the community. But in order to produce the work 
at the lowest possible price, no abridgement or omission has been had recourse to, either in respect 
to the prose or poetical contents of original editions.' On the contrary, this edition is positively 
the most complete of all that have ever been published, becanse a careful research having been 
made through the; earlier collections of Burns' Poems, several pieces have been therein found 
that have been omitted in more recent editions, but which are included in the present volume. 



SKETCH 

OF THE 

LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



Robert Burns was, as is well known, the son of 
a farmer in Ayrshire, and afterwards himself a 
farmer there ; but, having been unsuccessful, he 
was about to emigrate to Jamaica. He had pre- 
viously, however, attracted some notice by his 
poetical talents in the vicinity where he lived; 
and having published a small volume of his 
poems at Kilmarnock, this drew upon him more 
general attention. In consequence of the en- 
couragement he received, he repaired to Edin- 
burgh, and there published, by subscription, an 
improved and enlarged edition of his poems, 
which met with extraordinary success. By the 
profits arising from the sale of this edition, he 
was enabled to enter on a farm in Dumfries- 
shire ; and having married a person to whom he 
had been long attached, he retired to devote the 
remainder of his life to agriculture. He was 
again, however, unsuccessful; and, abandoning 
his farm, he removed again into the town of 
Dumfries, where he filled an inferior office in the 
excise, and where he terminated his life in July, 
1796, in his thirty-eighth year. 

The strength and originality of his genius pro- 
cured him the notice of many persons distin- 
guished in the republic of letters, and. among 
others, that of Dr. Moore, well known for his 
"Views of Society and Manners on the Continent 
of Europe," for his " Zeluco," and various other 
works. To this gentleman our poet addressed a 
letter, after his first visit to Edinburgh, giving a 
history of his life, up to the period of his writing. 
In a composition never intended to see the 
light, elegance or perfect correctness of composi- 
tion will not be expected. These, however. Avill 
be compensated by the opportunity of seeing 
our poet, as he gives the incidents of his life, un- 
fold the peculiarities of his character with all 
the careless vigour and open sincerity of his 
mind. 

Mauchline, 2nd August, 1787. 

" SlE,— 

"For some months past I have been rambling 
over the country; but I am now confined with 
some lingering complaints, originating, as I take 
it, in the stomach. To divert my spirits a little 
in this miserable fog of ennui, I have taken a 
whim to give you a history of myself. My name 
has made some little noise in this country; you 
have done mc the honour to interest yourself 
very warmly in my behalf; and I think a faith- 
ful account of what character of a man I am, and 
how I came by that character, may perhaps 
amuse you in an idle moment, I will give von an 



honest narrative ; though I know it will be often 
at my own expense;— for I assure you, sir, I 
have, like Solomon, whose character, except in 
the trifling affair of icisdom, I sometimes think I 
resemble,— I have, I say. like him, turned my eyes 
to behold madness and folly, and like him, too, 
frequently shaken hands with their intoxicating 
friendship. * * * After you have persued 
these pages, should you think them trifling and 
impertinent, I only beg leave to tell you, that 
the poor author wrote them under some twitch- 
ing qualms of conscience, arising from a suspicion 
that he was doing what he ought not to do; a 
predicament he has more than once been in be- 
fore. 

"I have not the most distant pretensions to 
assume that character which the pye-coated 
guardians of escutcheons call a Gentleman. 
When at Edinburgh last winter, I got acquainted 
in the Herald's Office ; and, looking through 
that granary of honours, I found there almost 
every name in the kingdom ; but for me, 

"My ancient but ignoble blood 

Has crept through scoundrels ever since the 

flood." 
Gules, purpure, argent, &c, quite disowned me. 
"My father was of the north of Scotland, the 
son of a farmer, and was thrown by early mis- 
fortunes on the world at large ; where after 
many years wanderings and sojournings, he 
picked up a pretty large quantity of observation 
and experience, to which I am indebted for most 
of my little pretensions to wisdom— I have met 
with few who understood men, their manners, 
and their ways, equal to him; but stubborn, un- 
gainly integrity, and headlong, ungovernable 
irascibility, are disqualifying circumstances; . 
consequently I was born a very poor man's son. i 
For the first six or seven years of my life, my ! 
father was a gardener to a worthy gentleman of 
small estate in the neighbourhood of Ayr. Had 
he continued in that station, I must have 
marched off to be one of the little underlings 
about a farm-house ; but it was his dearest wish 
and prayer to have it in his power to keep his 
children under his own eye till they could dis- 
cern between good and evil; so, with the^assist- 
ance of his generous master, my fathcrventured 
on a small farm on his estate. At those, years I 
was by no means a favourite with anybody. I 
was a good deal noted for a retentive memory, a 
stubborn sturdy something in my disposition, 
and an enthusiastic idiot piety. I say idiot 



vi 

piety, because I was then but a child. Though 
it cost the schoolmaster some thrashings. 1 made 
an excellent English scholar; and by the time 1 
was ten or eleven years of age, I wis a critic in 
substantives, verbs, and panicles; in my infant 
and boyish days, too. I owed much to an old 



■ he 



;:lk'i 



•niiig devils 

'deadlights 



She had, 1 supr. 

country 'of tales ana songs eonec 
ghosts, fairies, brownies, witch 
siiunkies, kelpies, elf-candles, 
wraiths, apparitions, cantraips, 
chanted towers, dragons, and other trumpery. 
This cultivated the latent seeds of poetry ; but 
had so strong an effect on my imagination, that 
to this hour, in my nocturnal rambles, I some- 
limes keep a sharp look-out in suspicious places : 
and though nobody can be more sceptical than I 
am in such matters, yet it often takes an effort 
of philosophy to shako off these idel terrors. The 
earliest composition that I recollect taking plea- 
sure in, was ••The Vision of Mirza," and a hymn 
of; Addison's, beginning, "How are thy servants 
blest, O Lord !" I particularly remember one half 
stanza which was music to my boyish ears— 



I met with thesejpiecesin ' Mason's English Col- 
lection,"' one of my school-books. The two first 
books I ever read in private, and which gave me 
more pleasure than any two books I ever read 
since, were, "The Life of Hannibal," and "The 
History of Sir William Wallace." Hannibal 
gave my young ideas such a turn, that I used to 
strut in raptures up and down after the recruit- 
ing drum and bag-pipe, and wish myself tall 
enough to be a soldier ; while the story of Wal- 
lace poured a Scottish prejudice into my 
veins, which will boil along there till the flood- 
gates of life shut in eternal rest. 

"Polemical divinity about this time was put- 
ting the country half mad; and I, ambitious of 
shining in conversation parties on Sundays, be- 
tween sermons, at funerals, &c, used, a few 
years afterwards, to puzzle Calvinism with so 
much heat and indiscretion, that I raised a hue 
and cry of heresy against me, which has not 
ceased to this hour. 

"My vicinity to Ayr was of some advantage 
to me. My social disposition, when not checked 
by some modifications of spiritual pride, was, 
like our catechism-definition of infinitude, with- 
out bounds or limits. I formed several connec- 
tions with other younkers who possessed supe- 
rior advantages, the youngling actors, Avho were 
busy in the rehearsal of parts in which they 
were shortly to appear on the stage of life, 
where, alas ! I was destined to drudge behind 
the scenes. It is not commonly at this green 
age that our young gentry have a just sense of 
the immense distance between them and their 
ragged play-fellows. It takes a few dashes into 
the world, to give the young great man that 
proper, decent, unnoticjng disregard for the 
poor insignificant stupid devils, the mechanics 
and peasantry around him, who were perhaps 
born in|the same village. My young superiors 
never insulted the clouterhj appearance of my 
plough-boy carcase, the two extremes of which 
were often exposed to all the inclemencies of 
the seasons. They would give me stray volumes 
of books; among 'them, even then, I could pick 
up some observations; and one, whose heart I 
tun sure not even the Mmuni ]U>qmn scenes have 
tainted, helped me to a little French. Parting 
with these my young friends and benefactors, 
as they occasionally went off for the. Last or 
West Indies, was often to me a sore affliction. 
But I was soon called to more serious evils. Mv 
father's generous master died ; the farm proved 
a ruinous bargain; and. to clench the niisf-r- 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURKS. 

tune, we fell into the hands of a factor, who sat 
for the picture i have drawn of one in my 'Tale 
of Twa Hogs." My father was advanced in life 
when he married; I was the eldest of seven 
children; and he, worn out by early hardships, 
was unfit for labour. My father's spirit was 
soon irritated, but not easily broken. There was 
a freedom in his lease in two years more; and to 
weather these two years, we retrenched our ex- 
penses. We lived very poorly ; I was a dex- 
trous ploughman, for my age ; and the next 
eldest to me was a brother (Gilbert), who could 
drive the plough very well, and help me to 
thrash the corn. A novel-writer might perhaps 
have viewed these scenes with some satisfac- 
tion; but so did not I ; my indignation yet boils 
at the recollection of the s 1 factor's inso- 
lent threatening letters which used to set us all 
in tears. 

"This kind of life— the cheerless gloom of a 
hermit, with the unceasing moil of a galley- 
slave, brought me to my sixteenth year; a little 
before which period I first committed the sin of 
Rhyme. Yon know our country custom of coup- 
ling a man and woman together as partners in 
the labours of harvest. In my fifteenth summer 
my partner was a bewitching creature a year 
younger than myself. My scarcity of English 
denies me the power of doing her justice in that 
language; but you know the Scottish idoim— she 
was a bonnie, sweet, sonsie lass. In short, site alto- 
gether, unwittingly to herself, initiated me in 
that delicious passion, which, in spite of acid 
disappointment, gin-horse prudence, and book- 
worm philosophy, I hold to be the first of human 
joys, our dearest blessing here below ! How she 
caught the contagion, I cannot tell; you medical 
people talk much of infection from breathing the 
same air, the-touch, &c. ; but I never expressly 
said 1 loved her. Indeed, I did not know myself 
why I liked to loiter behind with her, when re- 
turning in the evening from our labours ; why 
the tones of her voice made my heart-strings 
thrill like an JEolian harp ; and particularly why 
my pulse beat such a furious ratan when I 
looked and fingered over her little hand to pick 
out the cruel nettle-stings and thistles. Among 
her other love-inspiring finalities, she sung 
sweetly ; and it was her favourite reel, to which 
I attempted giving an embodied vehicle in 
rhyme. I was not so presumptuous as to ima- 
gine that I could make verses like printed ones, 
composed by men who had Greek and Latin; 
but my girl sung a song, which was said to be 
composed by a small country laird's son, on one 
of his father's maids, with whom he was in love ! 
and I saw no reason why I might not rhyme as 
well as he ; for, excepting that he could swear 
sheep, and cast peats, his father living in the 
moor-lands, he had no more scholar-craft than 
myself. 

" Thus with me began love and poetry, which 
at times have been my only, and till within the 
last twelve months, have been my highest en- 
joyment. My fa'ther struggled on till he reached 
the freedom in his lease, when he entered on a 
larger farm, about ten miles farther in the 
country. The nature of the bargain he made 
was such as to throw a little ready money into 
his hands at the commencement of his lease, 
otherwise the affair would have been impracti- 
cable. For four years we lived comfortably 
here ; but a difference commencing between him 
and his landlord, as to terms, after three years 
tossing and whirling in the vortex of litigation, 
my father was just saved from the horrors of a 
ja'il by consumption, which, after two years' 
promises, kindly stepped in, and carried him 
away, to where the wicked cease from troubling, 
and the weary are at rest. 

" It is during the time that wc lived on this 
farm, that my little story is most eventful. I 
was, at the beginning of this period, perhaps the 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



most ungainly, awkward boy in the parish— no 
solitaire was less acquainted with the ways of 
the world. What I knew of ancient story was 
gathered from Salmon's and Outline's geographi- 
cal crrammars : and the ideas I had formed of 
modern manner. Of literature, and criticism, I 
cot from the Spectator. These, with Pope's 
Works, some plays of Shakspere, 'Trill and Dick- 
son 'on Agriculture.' 'The Pantheon,' 'Locke's 
Essav on the Human Understanding.' Stack- 
hou-ie's 'History of the Bible,' Justice's 
' British Gardener's Directory,' Bavle's ' Lec- 
tures,' Allan Ramsay's Works, Taylor's ' Scrip- 
ture Doctrine of Original Sin,' a Select Collec- 
tion of English Songs, and Hervey's 'Medita- 
tions.' had formed the whole of my reading. The 
collection of songs was my cade mecum. I pored 
over them driving my cart, or walking to labour, 
song by song, verse by verse, carefully noting 
the true tender, or sublime, from affectation and 
fustian. I am convinced I owe to this practice 
much of my critic craft, such as it is. 

" In my seventeenth year, to give my manners 
a brush,' I went to a country dancing-school. 
My father had an unaccountable antipathy 
against these meetings; and my going was. 
what to this moment I repent, in opposition to 
his wishes. My father, as I said before, was 
subject to strong passions; from that instance 
of disobedience in me, he took a sort of dislike 
to me, which I believe was one cause of the dis- 
sipation which marked my succeeding years.- I 
sav dissipation, in comparison with the strict- 
ness, and sobriety, and regularity of Presby- 
terian country life: for though the Will-o'-Wisp 
meteors of thoughtless whim were almost the 
sole lights of my path, yet early ingrained piety 
and virtue kept me for several years after within 
the line of innocence. The great misfortune 
of my life was to want an aim. I had early felt 
some stirrings of ambition, but they were the 
blind gropings of Homer's Cyclops round the 
walls of his cave. I saw my father's situation 
entailed on me perpetual labour. The only two 
openings by which I could enter the temple of 
Fortune, was the gate of niggardly economy, or 
the path of little chicaning bargain-making. 
The first is so contracted an aperture. I never 
could squeeze myself into it;— the last I always 
hated— there was contamination in the very en- 
trance ! Thus abandoned of aim or view in life, 
with a strong appetite for sociability, as well 
from active hilarity, as from a pride of observa- 
tion and remark ; a constitutional melancholy of 
hypochondriasm that made me fly solitude : add 
to these incentives to social life, my reputation 
for bookish knowledge, a certain "wild logical 
talent, and a strength of thought, something like 
the rudiments of good sense; and it will not 
seem surprising that I was generally a welcome 
guest where I visited, or any great wonder that, 
always where two or three" met together, there 
was I among them. But far beyond all other 
impulses of my heart, was vn penchant a factor- 
able moitie du genre humain. My heart was com- 
pletely tinder, and was eternally lighted up by 
some goddess or other ; and as in every other 
warfare in this world my fortune was various, 
sometimes I was received with favour, and 
sometimes I was mortified with a repnlse. At 
the plough, scythe, or reap-hook, I feared no 
competitor, and thus I set absolute want at de- 
fiance ; and as I never cared further for my 
labours than while I was in actual exercise. I 
spent the evenings in a way after my own heart. 
A country lad seldom carries on a love-adven- 
ture without aii assisting confidant. I pos- 
sessed a curiosity, zeal, and intrepid dexterity, 
that recommended me as a proper second on 
these occasions ; and I dare say, I felt as much 
pleasure in being in the secret of half the loves 
cf the parish cf Tarbolton, as ever did states- 
men in knowing the intrigues of half the courts 



in Europe. The very goose-feather in my hand 
seems to know instinctively the well-worn path 
of my imagination, the favourite theme of my 
song; and it is with difficulty restrained from 
giving you a couple of paragraphs on the love- 
adventures of my compeers, the humble inmates 
of the farm-house and cottage; bnt the grave 
sons of science, ambition, or avarice, baptise 
these things by the name of follies. To the sons 
and daughters of labour and poverty, they are 
matters of the most serious nature ; to them, 
the ardent hope, the stolen interview, the tender 
farewell, are the greatest and most delicious 
parts of my enjoyments. 

"Another circumstance in my life which made 
some alteration in my mind and manners, was 
that I spent my nineteenth summer on a smug- 
gin;-- coast, a good distance from home, at a noted 
school, to learn mensuration, surveying, dial- 
ling, <fcc , in which I made a pretty great pro- 
gress. But I made a greater progress in the 
knowledge of mankind. The contraband trade 
was at the time very successful, and it some- 
times happened to me to fall in with those who 
carried it on. Scenes of swaggering riot and 
roaring dissipation were till this time new to 
me; but I was no enemy to social life. Here, 
though I learnt to fill my glass, and to mix with- 
out fear in a drunken squabble, yet I went on 
with a high hand with my geometry, till the sun 
entered Virgo, a month which is always a carni- 
val in my bosom, when a charming Jilette who 
lived next door to the school, overset my trigo- 
nometry, and set me off at a tangent from the 
sphere of my studies I, however, struggled on 
with mv sines and co-sines, for a few days more ! 
but stepping into the garden one charming- 
noon to take the sun's altitude, there I met my 
angel, 



It was in vain to think of doing any more 
good at school. The remaining week I staid, I 
did nothing but craze the faculties of my soul 
about her, or steal out to meet her; and the last 
two nights of my stay in the country, had sleep 
been a mortal sin. the image of this* modest and 
innocent girl had kept me guiltless. 

'• I returned home very considerably improved. 
My reading was enlarged with the very impor- 
tant addition of Thomson's and Shen stone's 
works : I had seen human nature in a new 
phasis : and I engaged several of my school- 
fellows to keep up a literary correspondence, 
with me. This improved me "in composition. I 
had met with a collection of letters of the wits 
of Queen Anne's reign, and I poured over them 
most devoutly: I kept copies of any of my own 
letters that pleased me. and a comparison be- 
tween them and the composition of most of my 
correspondents flattered my vanity. I carried 
this whim so far, that though I had not three 
farthings' worth of business in the world, vet 
almost every post brought me as- many letters 
as if I had been a broad plodding son of dav-book 
and ledger. 

"My life flowed on much in the same course till 
my twenty-third year. Vive Vamour. et vive la 
bagatelle, were my sole principles of action. The 
addition of two more authors to my library gave 
me great pleasure: 'Sterne' and 'M'Kenzie' 
—'Tristram Shandy 'and The Man of Feeling'— 
were my bosom favourites. Poesy was still a darl- 
ing walk for my mind ; but it was only indulged 
in according to the humour of the hour. I had 
usually half a dozen or more pieces on hand; I 
took up one or other, as it suited the mom jntarv 
tone of the mind, and dismissed the work as it 
bordered on fatigue. My passion, when once 
lighted up, raged like so many devils, till thev 
got vent in rhyme; and then the conning over 
my verses, like a spell, soothed all into ouiet. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



Is'one of the rhymes of those days are In print, 
except 'Winter', a Dirge.' t he cldestof my printed 
pieces; 'Death of Poor jMailie.' 'John Barley- 
corn,' and 'The Songs.' first, second, and third. 
Song second was the ebullition of that passion 
which ended the forementioned school business. 

"My twenty-third year was to me an im- 
portant era. Partly through whim, and partly 
that I wished to set about doing something in 
life, I joined a flax-dresser in a neighbouring 
town (Irvine) to learn his trade. This was an 

unlucky affair. My ; and, to finish the 

whole, as we were giving a welcome carousal to. 
the new year, the shop took Are and burnt to 
ashes ; and 1 was left like a true poet, not worth 
a sixpence. 

"I was obliged to give up this scheme: the 
clouds of misfortune were gathering thick round 
my father's head; and what was worst of all, 
he was visibly far gone in a consumption ; and 
to crown my distresses, a belle fille whom I 
adored, and who had pledged her soul to me in 
the field of matrimony, jilted me, with peculiar 
circumstances of mortification. The finishing 
evil that brought up the rear of this infernal 
file, was, my constitutional melancholy being in- 
creased to such a degree, that for three months 
I was in a state of mind scarcely to be envied 
-by the hopeless wretches who have got their 
mittimus— Depart from me, ye accursed! 

"From this adventure, I learned something 
of a town life ; but the principal thing which 
gave my mind a turn, was a friendship I formed 
with a young fellow, a very noble character, but 
a hapless son of misfortune. He was the son of 
a simple mechanic; but a great man in the 
neighbourhood taking him under his patronage 
gave him a genteel education, with a view of 
bettering his situation in life. The patron dying 
just as he was ready to launch out into the 
world, the poor little* fellow in despair went to 
sea ; where after a variety of good and ill for- 
tune, a little before I was acquainted with him, 
he had been set ashore by an American priva- 
teer, on the wild coast of Connaught, stripped 
of everything. I cannot quit this poor fellow's 
storv, without adding, that he is at this time 
master of a large West Indiaman belonging to 
the Thames. 

"His mind was fraught with independence, 
magnanimity, and every manly virtue. I loved 
and admired him to a degree of enthusiasm, and 
• of course tried to imitate him. In some measure, 
I succeeded ; 1 had pride before, but he taught 
it to flow in proper channels. His knowledge of 
the world was vastly superior to mine, and I 
was all attention to learn. He was the only 
man I ever saw, who was a greater fool than 
mvself, where woman was the presiding star; 
hut he spoke of illicit love with the levity of a 
sailor, which hitherto I had regarded with 
horror. Here his friendship did me a mischief; 
and the consequence was that soon after 1 re- 
sumed the plough, I wrote the 'Poet's Welcome.' 
My reading only increased, while in this town, 
by two stray volumes of 'Pamela' and one of 
"Ferdinand Count Fathom,'' which gave me 
some idea of novels. Rhyme, except some re- 
ligious pieces that are in print, I had given up ; 
but meeting with ' Ferguson's Scottish Poems,' 
I strung anew my wildly-sounding lyre with 
emulating vigour. When my father died, his 
all went among the hell-hounds that growl in 
the kennel of justice: but we made a shift to 
collect a little money in the family amongst us, 
with which, to keep ib together, my brother and 
I took a neighbouring farm. My brother wanted 
my hair-brained imagination, as well as my 
social and amorous madness: but in good sense, 
and every sober qualification, he was far my 
superior. 

'• 1 entered on this farm with a full resolution, 
'Cone', go to, I will lie wise!' I read farming 



books; I calculated crops ; I attended markets; 
and in short, in spite of ■ the devil, and the world 
and the flesh,' I believe, I should have been a 
wise man, but the first year from unfortunately 
buying bad seed, the second, from a late harvest, 
we lost half our crops. This overset all my wis- 
dom, and I returned like the dog to his vomit and 
the soio that teas washed to her wallowing in the 
mire. 

" I now began to be known in the neighbour- 
hood as a maker of rhymes. The first of my 
poetic offspring that saw the light, was a bur- 
lesque lamentation on a quarrel between two 
reverend Calvinists, both of them dramatis per- 
sonal in my ' Holy Fair.' I had a notion myself, 
that the piece had some merit; but to prevent 
the worst. I gave a copy of it to a friend who was 
very fond of such things, and told him that I 
could not guess who was the author of it, but 
that I thought it pretty clever. With a certain 
description of the clergy, as well as laitv, it met 
with a roar of applause. " Holy Willie's Prayer" 
next made its appearance, and alarmed the kirk 
session so much, that they held several meetings 
to look over their spiritual artillery, if haply any 
of it might be pointed against profane rhymers. 
Unluckily for me, my wanderings led me on 
another "side, within point-blank shot of their 
heaviest metal. This is the unfortunate story 
that gave trise to my printed poem, "The 
Lament." This was a most melancholy affair, 
which 1 cannot yet bear to reflect on, and had 
very nearly given me one or two of the principal 
qualifications for a place among those who have 
lost the chart, and mistaken the reckoning of 
rationality.* I gave up my part of the farm to 
my brother; in truth it was only nominally 
mine; and made what little preparation was in 
my power for Jamaica. But, before leaving my 
native country for ever, I resolved to publish 
my poems. I weighed my productions as im- 
partially as was in my power : I thought they 
had merit; and it was a delicious idea that I 
should be called a clever fellow, even though it 
should never reach my ears— a poor negro- 
driver,— or perhaps a victim of that inhospitable 
clime, and gone to the world of spirits! I can 
truly say, that paur.re inconnu as I then was, I 
had pretty nearly as high an idea of myself and 
of my works as 1 have at this moment when the 
public has decided in their favour. It ever was 
my opinion, that the mistakes and blunders, 
both in a rational and religious point of view, of 
which we see thousands daily guilty, are owing 
to their ignorance of themselves.— To know my- 
self, had been all along my constant study. I 
weighed myself alone; I balanced myself with 
others: I watched every means of information, 
to see how much ground I occupied as a man 
and as a poet; I studied assiduously nature's 
design in my formation —where the lights 
and shades in my character were intended. I 
was pretty confident my poems .would meet 
with some applause; but, at the worst, the roar 
of the Atlantic would deafen the voice of cen- 
sure, and the novelty of West Indian scenes 
make me forget neglect. I threw off six hun- 
dred copies, of which I had got subscriptions for 
about three hundred and fifty.— My vanity was 
highly gratified by the reception I had met with 
from the public; and besides I pocketed, all ex- 
penses deducted, nearly twenty pounds. This 
sum came very seasonably, as I was thinking oJ 
indenting myself, for want of money to procure 
my passage. As soon as I was master of nine 
guineas, the price of wafting me to the torrid 
zone, 1 took a steerage passage in the first ship 
that was to sail from the Clyde; for 

" ' Hungry ruin had me in the wind.' 



; An explanation of this will be found here- 



"I had been for some days skulking from 
covert to covert, under all the terrors of a jail ; 
as some ill-advised people had uncoupled the 
merciless pack of the law at my heels. I had 
taken the last farewell of my few friends; my 
chest was on the road to Gree'nock ; 1 had com- 
posed the last song I should ever measure in 
Caladonia. - ; The glo< 'ir;y night is gathering-fast :"' 
When a letter from Dr. Blacklock, to a friend of 
mine, overthrew all my schemes, by opening 
yew prospects to my poetic ambition. The 
Doctor belonged to a set of critics, for whose ap- 
plause 1 had not dared to hope. His opinion 
That I would meet with encouragement in Edin- 
burgh for a second edition, fired me so much, 
that away I posted for that city, without a single 
acquaintance, or a single letter of introduction. 
The baneful star, that had so long shed its blast- 
in.? influence in my zenith, for once made a re- 
volution to the nadir; and a kind Providence 
placed me under the patronage of one of the 
noblest of men, the Earl of Glencairn. Oullie 
moi, Grand Dieu, sijamaisje Voubhe. 

'•I need relate no further. At Edinburgh 1 
was in a new world: I mingled among many 
classes of men, but all of them new to me, and [ 
was all attention to catch the characters and the 
manners Uvina as they rise. Whether I have pro- 
fited time will show. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

physician in Ayr 



, hi 


s brother 


■ In 


d himself 


his 


life 


vl.il- 


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Mrs. 


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letter. 


from 


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At the period of our poet's deatl 
Gilbert Burns. wa.Hgnorant that h 
written the foregoing narrative of 
in Ayrshire; and having beenappli 
Dunlop for some memoirs of his 
complied with her request in a 
which the following narrative is ... 
tracted. When Gilbert Burns afterwards ... 
the letter of our poet to Br. Moore, he made 
some annotations upon it, which shall be noticed 
as we proceed. 

Robert Burns was born on the 29th day of 
January, 1759, in a small house about two miles 
from the town of Ayr. and within a few hundred 
yards of Alloway Church, which his poem of 
" Turn o' Shanter " has rendered immortal. The 
name which the poet and his brother modernized 
into Burns, was originally Barnes or Burners. 
Their father. William Barnes, was the son of a 
farmer in Kincardineshire, and had received the 
education common in Scotland to persons in his 
condition of life: he could read and write, and 
had some knowledge of arithmetic. His family 
having fallen into reduced circumstances, he 
was compelled to leave his home in his nine- 
teenth year, and turned his steps towards the 
south in quest of a livelihood. The same neces- 
sity attended his elder brother Robert. " I have 
often heard ray father," says. Gilbert Burns, in 
his letter to Mrs. Dunlop. " describe the anguish 
of mind he felt when they parted on the top of 
the hill on the confines of their native place, each 
going off his several way in search of new adven- 
tures, and scarcely knowing whither he went. 
My father undertook to act as gardener, and 
shaped his course to Edinburgh, where he 
wrought hard when he could get work, passing 
through a variety of difficulties. Still, however, 
he endeavoured to spare something for the sup- 
port of his aged parent; and I recollect hearing 
him mention his having sent a bank-note for 
this purpose when money of that kind was so 
scarce in Kincardineshire, that thev scarcely 
knew how to emplov it when it arrived." From 
Edinburgh William Burnes past westward into 
the county of Ayr, where he engaged himself as 
gardener to the laird of Fairlev, with whom he 
lived two years; then changing his service for 
that of Crawford of Doonside. At length, being 
desirous of settling in life, he took a perpetual 
lease of seven acres of land from Dr. Campbell, 



ith the view of commencing 
nurseryman and public gardener; and having 
built a house upon it with his own hands, 
married in December, 1757, Agnes Brown, the 
mother of our poet, who still survives. The first 
fruit of this marriage was Robert, the subject of 
these memoirs, born on the 29th of January, 
1759, as has already been mentioned. Before 
William Burnes had made much progress in pre- 
paring his nursery, he was withdrawn from that 
undertaking by Mr. Ferguson, who purchased 
the estate of Doonside. in the immediate neigh- 
bourhood, and engaged him as his gardener and 
OA^erseer ; and this was his situation when our 
poet was born. Though in the service of Mr. 
Ferguson, he lived in his own house, his wife 
managing her family and little dairy, which con- 
sisted sometimes of two, sometimes of three 
milch cows; and this state of im-ambitious con- 
tent continued till the year 1766. Plis son Robert 
was sent by him, in his sixth year, to a school at 
Alloway Miln, about a mile distant, taught by a 
person of the name of Campbell : but this teacher 
being in a few months appointed master of the 
workhouse at Ayr, William Burnes, in conjunc- 
tion with some other heads of families, engaged 
John Murdoch in his stead. The education of 
our poet, and of his brother Gilbert, was in com- 
mon; and of their proficiency under Mr. Mur- 
doch we have the following account: "With 
him we learnt to read English tolerably well, 
and to write a little. He taught us, too, the 
English grammar. I was too young to profit 
much from his lessons in grammar, but Robert 
made some proficiency in it— a circumstance of 
considerable weight "in the upholding of his 
genius and character; as he soon became re- 
markable for the fluency and correctness of his 
expression, and read the few books that came in 
his way with much pleasure and improvement; 
for even then he was a reader, when he could 
get a book. Murdoch, whose library at that 
time had no groat variety in it, lent him -The 
Life of Hannibal.' which was the first book he 
read (the school-books excepted), and almost the 
onlv one he had the opportunitv of reading while 
he was at school: 'The Life of Wallace.' which 
he classes with it in one of his letters to you, he 
did not see for some years afterwards, when he 
borrowed it from a blacksmith who shod our 
horses." 

It appears that William Burnes improved him- 
self greatly in the service of Mr. Ferguson, by 
his intelligence, industry, and integrity. In 
consequence of this, with a view of promoting 
his interest, Mr. Ferguson leased him a farm, 
of which wc have the following account: 

"The farm was upwards of seventy acres (be- 
tween eighty and ninety. English statute mea- 
sure), the rent of which was to be forty pounds 
annually for the first six years, and afterwards 
forty-five pounds. My father endeavoured to 
sell his leasehold property for the purpose of 
stocking this farm, but at that time was unable, 
and Mr. Fergusson lent him a hundred pounds 
for that purpose. He removed to his new situa- 
tion at Whitsuntide. 1766. It was, I think, not 
above two years after this, that Murdoch, our 
tutor and friend, left this part of the country; 
and there being no school near us, and onr little 
services being useful on the farm, my father 
undertook to teach us arithmetic in the winter 
evenings, bv candle-light : and in this way my 
two elder sisters got all the education they re- 
ceived. I remember a circumstance that hap- 
pened at this time, which, though trifling in it- 
self, is fresh in my memory, and may serve to' 
illustrate the early character of my brother. 
Murdoch came to spend a night with "us, and to 
take his leave, when he was about to go into 
Carrick. He brought us a present and memorial 
of him, a small compendium of English Grammar, 
and the tragedy of 'Titus Andronicus ;' and by 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



way of passing the evening, he began to read the 
play aloud. We were all attention for some time, 
till presently the whole party -were dissolved in 
tears A female in the play (I have but a con- 
fused remembrance of it) had her hands chopped 
off, and her tongue cut out, and then was insult- 
ingly desired to call for water to wash her hands. 
At this, in an agony of distress, we with one 
voice desired he would read no more. My father 
observed, that if we would not hear it out, it 
would be needless to leave the play with us. 
Robert replied, that if it was left he would burn 
it. My father was going to chide him for this 
ungrateful return to his tutor's kindness; but 
Murdoch interfered, declaring that he liked to 
see so much sensibility; and he left 'The School 
for Love,' and a comedy (translated, 1 think, from 
the French), in its place." 

"Nothing," continues Gilbert Burns, "could 
be more retired than our general manner of 
living, at Mount Elephant; we rarely saw any- 
body but the members of our own family. There 
were no boys of our own age, or near it, in the 
neighbourhood. Indeed the greatest part of the 
land in the vicinity was at that time possessed 
by shopkeepers, and people of that stamp, who 
had retired from business, or who kept their farm 
in the country, at the same time that they fol- 
lowed business in town. My father was for some 
time almost the only companion we had. He 
conversed familiarly on all subjects with us, as 
if we had been men; and was at great pains, 
while we accompanied him in the labours of the 
farm, to lead the conversation to such subjects 
as might tend to increase our knowledge, or 
confirm us in virtuous habits. He borrowed 
' Salmon's Geographical Grammar' for us, and en- 
deavoured to make us acquainted with the situ- 
ation and history of the different countries in 
the world; while from a book society in Ayr, he 
procured for us the reading of ' Dei-ham' s Thy- 
sico and Astro-Theology,' and 'Ray's Wisdom of 
God in the Creation,' to give us some idea of as- 
tronomy and natural history. Robert read all 
these books with an avidity and industry scarcely 
to be equalled. My father had been a subscriber 
jto ' Stackhouse's History of the Bible,' then 
lately published by James Meuros in Kilmarnock ; 
from this Robert collected a competent knowledge 
of ancient history ; for no book was so voluminous 
as to slacken his industry, or so antiquated as to 
damp his researches. A brother of my mother, 
who had lived with us for some time, and had 
learnt some arithmetic by our winter evening's 
candle, went to a bookseller's shop in Ayr, to 
,'ijitrohase 'The Ready Reckoner,' or 'Tradesman's 
Guide', and a book to teach him to write letters. 
Luckily, in place of 'The Complete Letter-Writer,' 
lie got by mistake a small collection of letters 
by the most eminent writers, with a few sen- 
sible directions for attaining an easy episto- 
lary style. The book was to Robert of the 
greatest, importance. It inspired him with a 
strong desire to excel in letter-writing, while it 
furnished him with models by some of the first 
writers in our language. 

"My brother was about thirteen or fourteen, 
when my father, regretting that we wrote so ill. 
sent ns, 'week about, during a summer quarter, 
to the parish school of Dalrvmple, which, though 
between two or three miles distant, was the 
naarest to us. that we might have an opportunity 
of remedying this defect. About this time a 
bookish acquaintance of my father's procured us 
a reading of two volumes of Richardson's 
' Pamela,' which was the tirst novel we read, and 
the only part of Richardson's works my brother 
was acquainted with till towards the period of 
his commencing author. Till that time too he 
remained unacquainted with Fielding, with 
Smollet, (two volumes of ' Ferdinand Count 
Fathom,' and two volumes of ' Preregrine Pickle,' 
excepted,) with Hume and Robertson, and almost 



all our authors of eminence of the later times. 1 
recollect indeed my father borrowed a volume of 
English history from Mr. Hamilton of Bourtree- 
hill's gardener. It treated of the reign of James 
the First, and his unfortunate son, Charles, but 
1 do not know who was the author: all that I 
remember of it is something of Charles's conver- 
sation with his children. About this time, Mur- 
doch, our former teacher, after having been in 
different places ' in the country, and having 
taught a school some time in Dumfries, came to 
be the established teacher of the English lan- 
guage in Ayr, a circumstance of considerable 
consequence to us. The remembrance of my 
father's former friendship, and his attachment 
to my brother, made him do everything in his 
power for oui improvement. He sent us Pope's 
works, and some other poetry, the first that we 
had an opportunity of reading excepting what is 
contained in 'The English Collection,' and in 
the volume of 'The Edinburgh Magazine' for 
1772 ; excepting also those excellent new songs that 
are hawked about the country in baskets or ex- 
posed on stalls in the streets. 

"The summer after we had been at Dalrvmple 
school, my father sent Robert to Ayr, to revise 
his English grammar, with his former teacher. 
He had been there only one week, when he was 
obliged to return to assist at the harvest. When 
the harvest was over, he went back to school, 
where he remained two weeks; and this com- 
pletes the account of his school education, ex- 
cepting one summer quarter some time after- 
wards, that he attended the parish school of 
Kirk Oswald (where he lived with a brother of 
my mother's) to learn surveying. 

"During the two last weeks that he was with 
Murdoch, he himself was engaged in learning 
French, and he communicated the instructions 
he received to my brother, who, Avhen he re- 
turned, brought with him a French dictionary 
and grammar, and the 'Adventures of Telema- 
chus' in the original. In a little while, by the 
assistance of these books, he acquired such a 
knowledge of the language, as to read and 
understand any French author in prose. This 
was considered as a sort of prodigy, and, through 
the medium of Murdoch, procured him the ac- 
quaintance of several lads in Ayr, who were at 
time gabbling French, and the notice of some 
families, particularly that of Dr. Malcolm, where 
a knowledge of French was a recommendation. 

"Observing the facility with which he had 
acquired the French language, Mr. Robinson, 
the established writing-master in Ayr, and Mr. 
Murdoch's particular friend, having himself ac- 
quired a considerable knowledge of the Latin 
language by his own industry, without ever 
having learned it at school, advised Robert to 
make the same attempt, promising him every 
assistance in his power. Agreeably to this ad- 
vice, he purchased ' The Rudiments of the Latin 
Tongue,' but finding this study dry and unin- 
teresting, it was quickly laid aside. He fre- 
quently returned to his 'Rudiments' on any 



nated more than a day or two at a time, or a 
week at most. Observing himself the ridicule 
that would attach to this sort of conduct if it 
were known, he made two or three humorous 
stanzas on the subject, which I cannot now re- 
collect, but they all ended, 

" ' So I'll to my Latin again.' 
" Thus you sec Mr. Murdoch was a principal 
means of my brother's improvement. Worthy 
man ! though foreign to mv present purpose, I 
cannot take leave of him without tracing his 
future history. He continued for some years a 
respected and useful teacher at Ayr, till one 
evening that he had been overtaken in liquor, he 
happened to speak somewhat disrespectfully of 



LIFE OF ROBERT LlUI^s 



xi 



Dr. Dalrymple, the parish minister, who had 
not paid liiin that attention to which he thought 
himself entitled. In Ayr he might as well have 
spoken blasphemy. He found it proper to give 
up his appointment. He went to London, where 
he still lives, a private teacher of French. He 
has been a considerable time married, and keeps 
a shop of stationary wares. 

"The father of Dr. Paterson, now physician at 
Ayr, was, I believe, a native of Aberdeenshire, 
and was one of the established teachers in Ayr 
when my father settled in the neighbourhood. 
He eagerly recognised mv father as a fellow- 
native of the north of Scotland, and a certain 
degree of intimacy subsisted between them 
during Mr. Paterson's life. After his death, his 
widow, who is a very genteel woman, and of 
great worth, delightedln doing what she thought 
her husband would have done, and assiduously 
kept up her attentions to all his acquaintance. 
She kept alive the intimacy with our family, by 
frequently inviting my father and mother to 
her house on Sundays, when she met them at 
church. 

" When she came to know my brother's passion 
for books, she kindly offered us the use of her 
husband's library, and from her Ave got the 
'Spectator,' 'Pope's Translation of Homer,' 
and several other books that were of use to us. 
Mount Oliphant, the farm my father possessed 
in the parish of Ayr, is almost the very poorest 
soil I know of in a state of cultivation. A 
stronger proof of this, I cannot give, than that, 
notwithstanding the extraordinary rise in the 
value of lands in Scotland, it was, after a con- 
siderable sum laid out in improving it by the 
proprietor, let, a few years ago, Ave pounds per 
annum lower than the rent paid for it by my 
father thirty years ago. My father, in conse- 
quence of this, soon came into difficulties, which 
were increased by the loss of several of his cattle 
by accidents and" disease.— To the bnffetings of 
misfortune, we could only oppose hard labour 
and the most rigid economy. We lived very 
sparingly. For several years butcher's meat 
was a stranger in the house, while all the mem- 
bers of the family exerted themselves to the ut- 
most of their strength, and rather bevond it, in 
the labours of the farm. My brother, at the age 
of thirteen, assisted in threshing the crop of 
corn, and at fifteen was the principal labourer 
on the farm, for we had no hired servant, male 
or female. The anguish of mind we felt at our 
tender years, under these straits and difficulties. 
was very great. To think of our father growing 
old (for he was now above fiftvl. broken down 
with the long-continued fatigue- of his lite, with 
' a wife and Ave other children, and in a declining 
state of circumstances.— these reflections pro- 
duced in my brother's mind and mine sensations 
of the deepest distress. I doubt not but the hard 
labour and sorrow of this period of his life was 
in a great measure the cause of that depression 
of spirits with which Robert was so often afflic- 
ted through his whole life afterwards. At this 
time he was almost constantly afflicted in the 
evenings with a dull headache, which, at a 
future period of his life, was exchanged for a 
palpitation of the heart, and a threatening of 
fainting and suffocation in his bed. in the night- 
time. 

'• By a stipulation in mv father's lease, he had 
a right to throw it up, if he thought proper, at 
the end of every sixth year. He attempted to 
fix himself in a better farm at the end of the 



then took the farm of Lochlea, of 130 acres, at 
the rent of twentv shillings an acre, in the 

parish of Tarbolton. of Mr. . then a 

merchant in Avr. and now (1707) a merchant in 
Liverpool. He removed to this farm at Whit- 
Sunday. 1777. an I possessed it only seven years. 



JSfo writing had ever been made out of the con- 
ditions of the lease ; a misunderstanding took 
place respecting them; the subjects in dispute 
were submitted to arbitration, and the decision 
involved my father's affairs in ruin. He lived 
to know of this decision, but not to see any r exe- 
cution in consequence of it. He died on the 
13th of February, 1784. 

"The seven years we lived in Tarbolton parish 
(extending from the seventeenth to the twenty- 
fourth of my brother's age) were not marked by 
much literary improvement : but during this 
time the foundation was laid of certain habits in 
my brother's character, which aftervrards be- 
came but too prominent, and which malice and 
envy have takeii'delight to enlarge on. Though, 
when young, he was bashful and awkward in 
his intercourse with women, yet, when he ap- 
proached manhood, his attachment to their 
society became very strong, and he was con- 
stantly the victim of some fair enslaver. The 
symptoms of his passions were often such as 
nearly to equal those of the celebrated Sappho. 
I never indeed knew that he fainted, sunk, and 
died away; but the agitations of his mind and 
body exceeded anything of the kind I ever knew 
in real life. He had always a particular jealousy 
of people who were richer than himself, or who 
had more consequence in life. His love, there- 
fore, rarely settled on persons of this descrip- 
tion. When he selected any one, out of the 
sovereignty of his good pleasure, to whom he 
should pay his particular attention, she was in- 
stantly invested with a sufficient stock of charms, 
out of the plentiful stores of his own imagination : 
and there was often a great dissimilitude be- 
tween his fair daptivator, as she appeared to 
others, and as she seemed when invested with 
the attributes he gave her. One generally 
reigned paramount in his affections: but as 
Yoiick's affections flowed out toward Madame 

de L at the rernise door, while the eternal 

vows of Eliza Avere upon him, so Robert was 
frequently encountering other attractions, which 
formed so* many under plots in the drama of his 
love. As these connexions were governed by 
the strictest rules of virtue and modesty (from 
which he never deviated till he reached his 
twenty-third year), he became anxious to be in 
a situation to marry. This was not likely to be 
soon the case while he remained a farmer, as 
the stocking of a farm required a sum of money 
he had no probability of being master of for a 
great while. He began, therefore, to think of 
trying some other line of life. He and 1 had for 
several years taken land of my father for the 
purpose of raising flax on our own account. In 
the course of selling it. Robert began to think of 
turning flax-dresser, botli as being suitable to 
his grand view of settling in life, and as subser- 
vient tothe flax raising. He accordingly wrought 
at the business of a flax-dresser in Irvine for six 
months, but abandoned it at that period, as 
neither agreeing with his health nor inclination. 
In Irvine he had contracted some acquaintance 
of a freer manner of thinking and living than he 
had been used to, whose society prepared him 
for overleaping the bounds of rigid virtue which 
had hitherto restrained him. Towards the end 
of the period under review (in his twenty-fourth 
year), and soon after his father's death he was fur- 
nished the subject of his epistle to John Rankin. 
During this period, also, he became a freemason, 
which was his first introduction tothe life of a 
boon companion. Yet, notwithstanding these 
circumstances, and the praise he has bestowed 
on Scotch drink (which seems to have misled his 
historians), I do not recollect, during these seven 
years, nor till towards the end of his com- 
mencing author (when his growing celebrity 
occasioned his being often in company), to have 
ever seen him intoxicated ; nor was he at all 
given to drinking. A stronger proof of thG 



~xii 



LIFE OF KORERT BUKXS. 



'•■ sobriety of his conduct need not be re- 
quired than what I niu about to give. During 
the whole of the time we lived ill the farm o 
Lecblea with my father, he allowed my brothei 

-iteh M'aui's for our labour as he gave t< 
is a part of wh 



>n" o 



clo 



i red i 



the 



regularly aecounted f< 
affairs drew near a crisis, Robert and I took 
the faraa of Mossgiet, consisting of lis acres, at 
the rent of ninety pounds per annum (the farm 
oil which I live at present), from Mr. Gavin 
Hamilton, as an asylum for the familv in ease of 
the worst. It was' stocked by the property and 
individual savings of the whole family, and was 
41 joint concern among us. Every member of 
The family was allowed ordinary wages for the 
labour he" performed on the farm. My brother's 
allowance and mine was seven pounds per 
annum each. And during the whole time thn 
family concern lasted, which was four years, as. 
well as during the preceding period at'Lochlea, 
his expenses never in any one year exceeded his 
slender income. As I was intrusted Avith tho 
keeping of the family accounts, it is not possible 
that there can be any fallacy in this statement 
in my brother's favour. His temperance and 
frugality were everything that could be 
wished. 

"The farm of Mossgiel lies very high, and 
•mostly on a cold, wct'bottom. The first four 
years that we were on the farm were very 
frosty, and the spring was very late. Our crops 
in consequence were very unprofitable ; and 
notwithstanding our utmost diligence and eco- 
nomy, we found ourselves obliged to give up 
our bargain, with the loss of a considerable part 
of our original stock. It was during these four 
years that Robert formed his connexion with 
Jean Armour, afterwards Mrs. Burns. The con- 
nexion could no longer be concealed, about the. 
time we came to a final determination to quit 
the farm. Robert durst not engaged with a 
family in his poor unsettled state, but was 
anxious to shirk! his partner by every means 
in his power from the consequences of their 
imprudence. It was agreed, therefore, between 
them, that they should make a legal ackow- 
ledgement of an Irregular and private marriage; 
that lie should go to Jamaica to push his for- 
tune; and that she should remain with her 
father till it might please Providence to put 
the means of supporting a family in his power. 

"Mrs. Burns was a great favourite of her 
father's. The intimation of a private marriage 
was the first, suggestion he received of her real 
situation. He was in the greatest distress, and 
fainted away. The marriage did not appear to 
him to make the- matter any better. Ahusband in 
Jamaica appeared to him aiid his wife little better 
ihaii none, and an effectual bar to any other 
prospects of a settlement in life that their daugh- 
ter might have. They therefore expressed a 
wish to her, that the written papers which re- 
spected the marriage should he cancelled, and 
thus the marriage mid-red void. In hermelan- 
choly state she felt the deepest remorse at hav- 



wife and family in the best manner that hi; 
daily labours could provide for 1 hem; that beim 
11m 'onlv means in his power. Even this offe 
they did »0t approve of; for humble as Mis; 
Armour's station was. and great though her im 
prudence had been, she still, in the eyes of he 



of the most distracting nature : and the imnres- 
sion of sorrow was not effaced, till by a regular 
marriage they were indissolubly united. In the 
state of mind which this separation produced, 
he wished to leave the country as soon as pos- 
sible, and agreed with Dr. Douglas to go out to 
Jamaica as an assistant overseer, or, as I be- 
lieve it is called, a book-keeper on his estate. 
Ashe had not sufficient money to pay his pas- 
- g •. and the vessel in which Dr. Douglas was 
to procure a passage for him was not expected 
to sail for some time. Mr. Hamilton advised him 
to publish his poems in the meantime bv sub- 
scription, as a likely way of getting a" little 
money to provide him more liberally in neces- 
saries for Jamaica. Agreeably to this advice, 
subscription bills were printed immediately, and 
the printing was commenced at Ki I .; '■■■.■ 
preparations going on at the same time for his 
voyage. The reception, however, which his 
poems met with in the world, and the friends 
they procured him, made him change his reso- 
lution of going to Jamaica, and he was advised 
to go to Edinburgh to publish a second edition, i 
On his return, in happier and more prosperous 
circumstances, he renewed his connexion with 
Mrs. Burns, and rendered it permanent by a 
union for life. 

" Thus, Madam, have I endeavoured to give 
you a simple narrative of the leading circum- 
stances in my brother's early life. The remain- 
ing part hespent in Edinburgh or Dumfries-shire, 
and its incidents are as w T ell known to you as to 
me. His genius having procured him your 
patronage and friendship, this gave rise to the 
correspondence between you, in which, I believe, 
his sentiments were delivered with the most 
respectful, but most unreserved confidence, and 
which only terminated with the last da vs of his 
life." 



This narrative of Gilbert Burns may serve as 
a commentary on the preceding sketch of our 
poet's life by himself. It will be seen that the 
distraction of mind which he mentions (p. viii) 
arose, from the distress and sorrow in which he 
had involved his future wife. The whole cir- 
cumstances attending this connexion are cer- 
tainly of a very singular nature. 

The reader will perceive, from the foregoing 
narrative, how much the children of William 
Burnes were indebted to their father, who was 
certainly a man of uncommon talents ; though it 
does not appear that ho possessed any portion of 
that vivid imagination for which the subject of 
these mempirs was distinguished. In p. vii 
it is observed by our poet, that his father had an 
unaccountable antipathy to dancing-schools, 
and that his attending one of these brought on 
him his displeasure, and even dislike. On this 
observation Gilbert has made the following re- 
mark, which seems entitled to implicit credit:— 
" I wonder how Robert could attribute to our 
father that lasting resentment of his going to a 
daiieing-school against his will, of which he was 
incapable. I believe the truth was, that he, 
about this time, began to see the dangerous im- 
petuosity of my brother's passions, as well as 
his not being amenable to counsel, which often 
irritated my father; and which he would 
naturally think a dancing-school was not likely 
to correct. But he was proud of Robert's genius, 
which he bestowed more expense in cultivating 
than on the rest of the familv, in the instances 
of sending him to Ayr ami Kirk-Oswald schools: 
and he was greatly delighted with his warmth 
of heart, and his conversationalpowers. He had 
indeed that dislike of dancing-schools which 
1,'oh'Tt. mentions ; but so far overcame it during 
Robert's first month of attendance, that he 
allowed all the rest of the family that were fit 




KOSSQIEL, THE FARM OF GILBERT AND ROBERT BURKS, 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



for it, to accompany him during the second 
month. Robert excelled in dancing, and was 
for some time distractedly fond of it." 

In the original letter to Dr. Moore, onr poet 
described his ancestors as ''renting lands of the 
noble Keiths of Marischal, and as having had 
the honour of sharing their fate." "I do not,'' 
continues he, '• use the word honour with any 
reference to political principles; loyal and dis- 
loyal I take to be merely relative terms, in that 
ancient and formidable court, known in this 
country by the name of Clublaw, where the 
right is afwavs with the strongest. But those 
who dare welcome ruin and shake hands with 
infamy, for what they sincerely believe to be 
the cause of their God. or their king, are, as 
Mark Antony says in Shakspere, of Brutus and 
Cassias, honourable men. I mention this cir- 
cumstance, because it threw my father on the 
world at large. 

This paragraph has been omitted in printing 
the letter, at the desire of Gilbert Burns; and 
it would have been unnecessary to have. noticed 
it on the present occasion, had" not several ma- 
nuscript copies of that letter been in circulation. 
"I do not know," observes Gilbert Burns, " how 
my brother could be misled in the account he 
has given of the Jacobitism of his ancestors, — I 
believe the Earl of Marischal forfeited his title 
and estate in 1715. before my father was born: 
and among a collection of parish-certificates in 
his possesion, I have read one, stating that the 
hearer had no concern in the late icicked rebel- 
lion." On the information of one who knew 
"William Burnes soon after he arrived in the 
county of Ayr, it may be mentioned, that a report 
did prevail, that he had taken the field with the 
young chevalier ; a report which the certificate 
mentioned by his son was, perhaps, intended to 
counteract. Strangers from the North, settling 
in the low country of .Scotland, were in those 
days liable to suspicions of having been, in the 
familiar phrase* of the country. "Out in the 
forty-five," (1745.) especially when they had any 
stateliness or reserve about them, as was the 
case with William Burnes. It may easily be 
conceived, that our poet wonld cherish the belief 
of his father's having been engaged in the daring 
enterprise of Prince Charles Edward. The 
generous attachment, the heroic valour, and the 
final misfortunes of the adherents of the house 
of Stuart, touching with sympathy his youthful 
and ardent mind, and influenced his' original 
political opinions. The father of our poet is 
described by one who knew him towards the 
latter end of his life, as above the common 
stature, thin, and bent with labour. His coun- 
tenance was serious and expressive, and the 
scanty locks on his head were grey. He was of 
a religious turn of mind, and as is usual among 
the Scottish peasantry, a good deal conversant 
in speculative theology. There is in Gilbert's 
hands a little manual of religions belief, in the 
form of a dialogue between a father and his son. 
composed by him for the use of his children, in 
which the benevolence of his heart seems to 
have led him to soften the rigid Calvinism of the 
Scottish church into something approaching to 
Arminianism. He was a devout man, and in the 
practice of calling his family together to join in 
prayer. It is known that the exquisite picture 
in the ••Cotter's Saturday Night " .stanzas 12, 13, 
14, 15. if., and 18) represents "William Burnes and 
his family at their evening devotions. 

Of a family so interesting as that which inha- 
bited the cottage of William Burnes and parti- 
cularly of the father of the family, the reader 
will perhaps be willing to listen to* some farther 
account. What follows is given by one already 
mentioned with so much honour, in the narra- 
tive of Gilbert Burns, Mr. Murdoch, the pre- 
ceptor of our poet. who. in a letter to Joseph 
Cooper Walker. Esq., of Dublin, author of the 



" Historical Memoir of the Italian Tragedy,' 
lately published, thus expresses himself:— 

- Sir,— 

" I was lately favoured with a letter from our 
worthy friend,* the Rev. Wm. Adair, in which he 
requested me to communicate to you whatever 
particulars I could recollect concerning Robert 
Burns, the Ayrshire poet. My business being at 
present multifarious and harassing, my atten- 
tion is consequently so much divided, and I am 
so little in the habit of expressing my thoughts 
on paper, that at this distance of time* I can give 
but a very imperfect sketch of the early part of 
the life of that extraordinary genius with which 
alone I am acquainted. 

'•William Burnes, the father of the poet, was 
born in the shire of Kincardine, and bred a gar- 
dener. He had been settled in Ayrshire ten or 
twelve years before I knew him, and had been 
in the service of Mr. Crawford of Doonside. He 
was afterwards employed as a gardener and 
overseer by Provost Ferguson of Doonholm, in 
the parish of Alloway, which is now united with 
that of Ayr. In this parish, on the road-side, a 
Scotch mile and a "naif from the town of Ayr, and 
half a mile from the bridge of Doon, William 
Burnes took a piece of land, consisting of about 
seven acres, part of which he laid out in garden 
ground, and part of which he kept to graze a 
cow, <fcc, still continuing in the employ of Pro- 
vost Ferguson. Upon this little farm was erected 
an humble dwelling, of which William Burnes 
was the architect. It was, with the exception 
of a little straw, literally a tabernacle of clay. In 
this mean cottage, of which I miyself was at 
times an inhabitant, I really believe, there 
dwelt a larger'portion of content than in any 
palace in Europe. The "Cotter's Saturday 
Night" will give some idea of the temper and 
manners that pre\ ailed there. 

••In 1705. about the middle of March, Mr. W. 
Burnes came to Ayr, and sent to the school 
where I was improving in writing under my 
good friend Mr. Robinson, desiring that I would 
come and speak to him at a certain inn, and 
bring my writing-book with me. This was im- 
mediately complied with. Having examined my 
writing, he was pleased with it— (you will readily 
allow lie was not difficult), and told me that he 
had received very satisfactory information of 
Mr. Tennant, the master of the English school, 
concerning my improvement in English and in 
his method of teaching. In the month of May 
following. I was engaged by Mr. Burnes, and 
four of his neighbours, to teach the little school 
at Alloway, which was situated a few yards from 
the argillaceous fabric above mentioned. My 
Ave employers undertook to board me by turns, 
and to make up a certain salary, at the end of 
the year, provided my quarterly* payments from 
the different pupils did not amount to that sum. 

"My pupil, Robert Burns, was then between 
six and seven years of age: his preceptor about 
eighteen. Robert and his younger brother 
Gilbert had been grounded a little in English 
before they were put under my care. They both 
made a rapid progress in reading, and a tolerable 
progress in writing. In reading, dividing words 
into syllables by rule, spelling without book, 
parsing sentences, &c. Robert and Gilbert were 
generally at the upper end of the class, even 
when ranged with boys by far their seniors. The 
books most commonly used were the " Spelling 
Book," the "New Testament," the "Bible," 
••Mason's Collection of Prose and Verse," and 
"Fisher's English Grammar." They committed 
to memory the hymns, and other poems of that 
collection, with uncommon facility. This facility 
was partly owing to the method pursued bv their 
father and me in instructing them, which was, 
to make them thoroughly acquainted with the 
meaning of every word in each sentence that 



LIFE Oh' ROBERT Bl 



was to be committed to memory. By the bye, 

this mav be easier done, and at an earlier time, 
than is generally thought. As soon as they were 
capable of it, I taught them to turn verse into its 
natural prose order: sometimes to substitute 
synonymous expressions for poetical words, and 
to supply all the ellipses. These, you know, are 
the means of knowing that the pupil understands 
his author. These are excellent helps to the 
arrangement of words in sentences, as well as to 
a variety of expression. 

" Gilbert always appeared to me to possess a 
more lively imagination, and to be more of the 
wit, than Robert. I attempted to teach them a 
little church-music. Here they were left far 
behind by all the rest of the school. Robert's 
ear. in particular, was remarkably dull, and his 
voice untunable. It was long before I could get 
them to distinguish one tune from another. 
Robert's countenance was generally grave, and 
expressive of a serious, contj ■. :.;:■ 

thoughtful mind. Gilbert's face said, Mirth, icith 
thee I mean to live; and certainly, if any person 
who knew the two boys had been asked which of 
them was the most likely to court the muses, he 
would surely never have guessed that Robert 
had a propensity of that kind. 

"In the year 17G7. Mr. Burns quitted his mud 
edifice, and took, possession of a farm (Mount 
Oliphant) of his own improving, while in the 
service of Provost Ferguson. This farm being at 
a considerable distance from the school, the boys 
could not attend regularly; and some changes 
had taken place among the other supporters of 
the school. I left it, having continued to conduct 
it for nearly two years and a half. 

'• In the year 1772, I was appointed (being one 
of five candidates who were examined) to teach 
the English school at Ayr: and in 1773, Robert 
Burns came to board and lodge with me. for the 
purpose of revising English grammar, etc., that 
he might be better qualified to instruct his 
brothers and sisters at home. He was now with 
me dav and night, in school, at all meals, and in 
all my walks. At the end of one week, I told 
him, that as he was now pretty much master of 
the parts of speech, <tc. I should like to teach 
him something of a French. pronunciation, that 
when he should meet with the name of a French 
town, ship, officer, or the like, in the news- 
papers, he might be able to pronounce it some- 
thing like a French word. Robert was glad to 
hear this proposal, and immediately we attacked 
the French with great courage. 

"Now there was little else to be heard but the 
declension of nouns, the conjugation of verbs, 
&c. When walking together, and even at meals, 
I was constantly telling him the names of dif- 
ferent objects, as they presented themselves, in 
French ; so that he was hourly laying in a stock 
of words, and sometimes little phrases. In 
short, he took such pleasure in learning, and I in 
teaching, that it was difficult to say which of the 
two was most zealous in the business; and 
about the end of the second week of our study of 
the French, we began to read a little of the 
'Adventures of Telemachus,' in Fenelon's own 
words. 

"But now the plains of Mount Oliphant began 
to whiten, and Robert was summoned to relin- 
quish the pleasing scenes that surrounded the 
grotto of Calypso, and, armed with a sickle, to 
seek glory by signalizing himself in the field .,; 
Ceres— and so he did: for although but about fif- 
teen, 1 was told that he performed the work of a, 
man. 

"Thus was I deprived of my very apt pupil, 



tin-ly in the study of English, and the other two 
chiefly in that of French. I did not. however, 
lose sight of him; but was a frequent visitor at 
his father's house, when I had my half-holiday, 



and very often went accompanied with one or 
two persons more intelligent than myself, that 
good William Burnes might enjoy a mental feast. 
—Then the labouring oar was shifted to some 
other hand. The father and the son sat down 
with us, when we enjoyed a conv 
wherein solid reasoning, sensible remark, and 
moderate seasoning <a jocularity, were so nicely 
blended as to render it palatable to all parties. 
Robert had a hundred questions to ask me about 
the French. &c. ; and the father, who had always 
rational information in view, had still some 
to propose to my more learned friends, 
ral or natural philosophy, or some such 
i 'Ct. Mrs. Burnes, too, was of 
the parry :. - mush as possible; 
" ' But still the house affairs would draw her 

thence, 
Which ever as she could with haste despatch, 
She'd come again, and, with a greedy ear, 

Devour up their disccurse ' 

and particularly that of her husband. At all 
times, and in all companies, she listened to him 
with a more marked attention than to anybody 
else. "When under the necessity of being absent 
while he was speaking, she seemed to regret, as 
a real loss, that she had missed what the good 
man had said. This worthy woman, Agnes 
Brown, had the most thorough esteen for her 
husband of any woman I ever knew. I can by 
no means wonder that she always considered 
William Burnes as by far the best of the human 
race that ever I had the pleasure of being ac- 
quainted with— and many a worthy character I 
have known. 1 can cheerfully join with Robert, 
in the last line of his epitaph (borrowed from 
Goldsmith)— 

" ' And e'en his failings lean'd to virtues' side.' 

" He was an excellent husband, if I may judge 
from his assiduous attention to the ease and 
comfort of his worthy partner, and from her 
affectionate behaviour to him, as well as from 
her unwearied attention to the duties of a 
other. 

"He was a tender and affectionate father; he 
took pleasure in leading his children in the path 
of virtue. ; not in driving them, as some parents 
do, to the performance of duties to which they 
themselves are averse. He took care to find 
fault but very seldom ; and therefore, when he 
did rebuke, lie was listened to with' a kind of 
reverential awe. A look of disapprobation was 
felt: a reproof was severely so : and a stripe of 
the taws, even on the ski t of the coat, gave 
heart-felt pain, caused a loud lamentation, and 
brought forth a flood of tears. 

"He had the art of gaining the esteem and 
good-will of those that were fellow-labourers 
under him. I think I never saw him angry but 



ice: the one time it v 
the band, for not reap 
desired : and the other 1 
old man, for using som 
double entendres. Were 
ltor 



he foreman of 
field as he was 
>- as with a very 
les and 
nil-mouthed old 
ck in this way, 
he rising gene- 
bearing to 



ould be to the advaniagi 
ration. As he was at no 1 
inferior-, lie was equally incapable of that paltry, 
pitiful, passive spirit, that induces some people 
booing and booing in the presence of a 
great man. He always treated superiors with 
becoming respect; but he never gave the 
smallest encouragement to aristocratical arro- 
g ! . But I mast not pretend to give you a 
; n of allthe manly .|iiaiifies. the rational 
and Christian virtues, of the venerable William 
Burnes. Time would fail me. I shall only add, 
that he carefully practised every known duty, 
and avoided everything that was criminal: or, 
in the apostle's words, Herein did he 
/tun self, in lin/hj a life void of offence towards God 
and towards man. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



xv 



" for a world of raon of such dispositions ! We 
should then have no wars. I have often wished, 
for the good of mankind, that it were as custom- 
ary to honour and perpetuate the memory of 
those who excel in moral rectitude, as it is to 
extol what was called heroic actions; then 
would the mausoleum of the friends of my youth 
overtop and surpass most of the monuments I 
see in Westminster Abbey. 

"Although I cannot do 'justice to the character 
of this worthy man, yet you will perceive, from 
these few particulars, what kind of person had 
the principal hand in the education of our poet. 
He spoke the English language with more pro- 
priety (both with respect to diction and pronun- 
ciation) than any man I ever knew with no _ 

greater advantages. This had a very good effect I amidst the howlings of the tempest, to apost 
on the boys, who began to talk and reason like phize the spirit of the storm. Suehsituat' 
men, much sooner than their neighbours. I do ' 
not recollect any of their cotemporaries, at my 
little seminary, who afterwards made any groat 
figure asl iterary characters, except Dr. Tennant, 
who was chaplain to Colonel Fullarton's regi- 
ment, and who is now in the East Indies. He is 
a man of genius and learning; yet affable, and 
free from pedantry. 

" e, found that he 
it, and that he 
family upon it. 



or rapt in the illusions of Fancy, as her enchant- 
ments rose on his view. Happily the Sunday is 
yet a sabbath, on which man and' beast rest from 
their labours. On this day, therefore, Burns 
could indulge in a freer intercourse with the 
charms of nature. It was his delight to wander 
alone on the banks of the Ayr, whose stream is 
now immortal, and to listen to the song of the 
blackbird at the close of the summer's day. But 
still greater was his pleasure, as he himself in- 
forms us, in walking on the sheltered side of a 
wood, in a cloudy winter day, and hearing the 
storm rave among the trees ; and more elevated 
still his delight, to ascend some eminence during 
the agitations of nature, to stride along its sum- 
mit, while the lightning flashed around him, and 



he 



"Mr. Bu 
had overrated Mount 01 
could not rear his name 
After being there some years, he removed to 
Lochlea, in the parish of Tar 
believe. Robert wrote most of hi- 

"But here, sir, you will permit me to pause. I 
can tell you but little more relative to the poet. 
I shall, however, in my next, send y> it 
one of his letters to me, about the year 1783. I 
received one since, but it is mislaid. Please re- 
member me, in the best manner, to my worthy 
friend, Mr. Adair, when you sec him or write to 
him. 

'•Hart-street, Bloonisbury-souare, London, 
Feb. 22, 1799/' 

As the narrative of Gilbert Burns was written 

at a time when he was ignorant of the existence 
of the preceding narrative of his brother, so this 



declares most favourable to devotion— ' 'Rapt i 
enthusiasm, I seem to ascend towards Him who 
walks on the icings of the wind!" If other proofs 
were wanting of the character of his genius, 
this might determine it. The heart of the poet 
is peculiarly awake to every impression of 
beauty and sublimity: but withthe higher order 
of poets, the beautiful is less attractive than the 
sublime. 

The gaiety of many of Bnrns's writings, and 
the lively, and even cheerful colouring with 
which he has pourtrayed his own character, 
may lead some persoms to suppose, that the 
melancholy which hnng over him towards the 
end of his days, was nut an original part of his 
constitution. It is not to be doubted, indeed, 
that this melancholy acquired a darker hue in 
the progress of his life: but, independent of his 



letter of Mr. Mardo 
having any knowled 
had been employed 
three relations serve 



presented w 
the whole : 
scarcely to be 



doubted 
reader will be far more gratified by a 
these original documents themselves. 



thout his 
her of his pupils 
me subject. The 
re. not merelv t" 
ich other. Though 
might have been 
r dueine- 
i narrative, it is 
the intelligent 
light of 



Undei 



the 



pears i 

tages; but his opportunities of information at I 

school were more limited as to time than they 
usually are amon t hi- 

dition of life; and the a: ;aM:i ns which he I 
made, and the poetical talent which he s e ri \ 
under the pressure of early and incess 
and of inferior, and perhaps scanty nn 
testify at once the extraordinary force and 
activity of his mind. In his frame of body he 
rose nearly to five feet ten inches, and assumed 
the proportion- that indicate actiiitv as well as ; 
strength. In the various labours of the farm he I 
d all bis competitors. Gilbert Burns 



own and of his brother 
to be found among his \ 
ject very early to tho 


s i e - 




ny. evidence is 
it he was sub- 
-imis of mind, 


which are perhaps no 






arable from 


the sensibility of geniu 
to an uncommon degre 
addressed to his father 
this observation. It vv 

when he was lea mine; 
r. and is dated 


3. Tl 

will 

as w 
the b 


ef 
•itt 
asi 


cli in him rose 
allowing letter, 
e as a proof of 
.n at the time 
less of a flax- 


"Honoured Sib,— 

" I have purpo-elvde 

that I should have the i 


"In 


ine 


Dec. 27, 1781. 

lie hope 
ingyouon 


New-year's dav; but w 
us, that I do not choose 






• - hard upon 
out n U that'ac- 


* shall tell you at meeting 

nearly the same as when you \ 
mv sleep i- a little sounder/and. 
am rather l • :m- than otherwise 


. My health is 
\-ere here, only 
on the whole, I 
though I mend 








akne-ss of my 
id. that I dare 
• look forward 



clares, that, in mov. 
all the rouse" 
man that, at 
ever obliged 
thousrh our p 
the labours < 



exercise that tries | 
>bert was the only 
day, he was 

a.s his master. But i 



to futurity: for the least anxiety or perturba- 
>n in my breast, produces most unhappy 
ects on my whole frame. Sometimes, indeed, 
ten for an" hour or two my spirits are a little 

. 7 glimmer a little into futurity; but 
r principal, and indeed my only -pleasurable 
lployment. is looking backwards and forwards 
amoral and religious way. I am quite trau- 
orted at the thought, that ere long, perhaps 

i. I shall bid an ete rnal adieu to all the 
ins and uneasinesses .and disquietudes of this 
sary life: for I assure you I am heartily tired 

. if Idoi ' : ' ;eiye myself, 

" 'The soul, uneasy, and confined at home, 
Rests and expatiates in a life to come.' 

' It is for this reason I am more pleased with 
■ loth. 16th, and 17th verses on the 7th chapter 
Revelations, than with any ten times as many 
rses in the whole Bible, and would not ex- 
ancre the noble enthusiasm with which they 



xvi 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



inspire mc for all that this world has to offer. 
As for this world, I despair of ever making a 
figure in it. 1 am not formed for the bustle of 
the busy, nor the flutter of the gay. 1 shall 
never again be capable of entering into such 
scenes, "indeed I ana altogether unconcerned at 
the thoughts of this life. I foresee that poverty 
and obscurity probably await me, and 1 am in 
.some measure prepared, and daily preparing to 
meet them. I have but just time' and paper to 
return you my grateful thanks for the lessons of 
virtue and piety you have given mc, which 
were too much neglected at the time of giving 
them, but which, I hope, have been remem- 
bered ere it is yet too late. Present my dutiful 
respects to my mythcr, and my compliments to 
Mr. and Mrs. Muir; and with wishing you a 
merry New-year's-day, I shall conclude. 
"I am, honoured sir, 
"Your dutiful son, 

"Robert Burns." 

" P.S. My meal is nearly out ; but I am going 
to borrow, till 1 get more." 

• This letter, written several years before the 
publication of his poems, when his name was as 
obscure as his condition was humble, displays 
the philosophic melancholy which so generally 
forms the poetical temperament, and that 
buoyant and ambitious spirit which indicates a 
mind conscious of its strength. At Irvine, 
Burns at this time possessed a single room for 
his lodgings, rented perhaps at the rate of a 
shilling a-week. He passed his days in constant 
labour as a flax-dresser, and his food consisted 
chiefly of oatmeal sent to him from his father's 
family. The store of this humble, though whole- 
some, nutriment, it appears was nearly ex- 
hausted, and he was about to borrow till he 
should obtain a supply. Yet even in this situa- 
tion, his active imagination had formed to itself 
pictures of eminence and distinction. His de- 
spair of making a figure in the world shows how 
ardently he wished for honourable fame; and 
his contempt of life, founded on this despair, is 
the genuine expression of a youthful, generous 
mind. In such a state of reflection, and of suf- 
fering, the imagination of Burns naturally passed 
tin- dark boundaries of our earthly horizon, and 
rested on those .beautiful representations of a 
better world, where there is neither thirst, nor 
hunger, nor sorrow, and where happiness shall 
be in proportion to the capacity of happiness. 

Such a disposition is far from being at vari- 
ance with social enjoyment?. Those who have 
studied the affinities of mind, know that a 
melancholy of this description, after a while, 
seeks relief in the endearments of society, and 
that it has ho distant connexion with the flow 
of cheerfulness, or even the extravagance of 
mirth. It was a few days after the writing of 
this letter that our poet, "in giving a welcom- 
ing carousal to the new year, with his gay com- 
panions," suffered his flax to catch fire, and his 
shop to be consumed to ashes. 

The energy of Burns' mind was not exhausted 
by his daily labours, the effusions of his muse, 
his social pleasures, or his solitary meditations. 
Some time previous to his engagement as a flax- 
dresser, having heard that a debating club had 
been established in Ayr, he resolved to try how 
such a meeting would succeed in the. village of 
Tarbolton. About the end of the year 1780, our 
poet, his brother, and five other young peasants 
of the neighbourhood, formed themselves into a 
society of this sort, the declared objects of which 
were to relax themselves after toil, to promote 
sociality and friendship, and to improve the mind. 
The laws and regulations were furnished by 
Bums. The members were to meet after the 
labours of the day were over, once a week, in a 
small public-house in the village: where each 
should offer his opinion on a given question or 



subject, supporting it by such arguments as he 
thought proper. The debate was to be con- 
ducted with order and decorum; and after it 
was finished, the members were to choose a sub- 
ject for discussion at the ensuing meeting. The 
sum expended by each was not to exceed three- 
pence; and, with the humble potation that this 
could procure, they were to toast their mis- 
tresses, and to cultivate friendship with each 
other. This society continued its meetings regu- 
larly for some time; and in the autumn of 1782, 
wishing to preserve some accounts of their pro- 
ceedings, they purchased a book, into winch 
their laws and regulations were copied, with a 
preamble, containing a short history of their 
transactions down to that period. This curious 
document, which is evidently the work of out- 
poet, has been discovered, and it deserves a 
place in his memoirs. 



'"Of birth or blood we do not boast, 

Nor gentry does our club afford; 

But ploughmen and mechanics we 

In Nature's simple dress record.' 

"As the great end of human society is to be- 
come wiser and better, this ought therefore to 
be the principal view of every man in every 
station of life. But as experience has taught us, 
that [such studies as inform the head and mend 
the heart, when long continued, are apt to ex- 
haust the faculties of the mind, it has been 
found proper to relieve and unbend the mind by 
some employment or another, that may be 
agreeable enough to keep its powers in exercise, 
but at the same .time not so serious as to ex- 
haust them. But superadded to this, by far the 
greater part of mankind are under the necessity 
of earning the sustenance of human life by the 
labour of their bodies, whereby, not only the fa- 
culties of the mind, but the nerves and sinews of 
the body, are so fatigued, that it is absolutely 
necessary to have recourse to some amusement 
or diversion, to relieve the wearied man worn 
down with the necessary labours of life. 

"As the best of things, however, have been 
perverted to the worst of purposes, so, under 
the pretence of amusement and diversion, men 
have plunged into all the madness of riot and 
dissipation; and instead of attending to the 
grand design of human life, they have begun 
with extravagance and folly, and ended with 
guilt and wretchedness. Impressed with these 
considerations, we, the following lads in the 
parish of Tarbolton— viz., Hugh Reid. Robert 
Burns. Gilbert Burns, Alexander Brown, Walter 
Mitchel, Thomas Wright, and William M'Gavin, 
resolved, for our mutual entertainment, to unite 
ourselves into a club, or society, under such 
rules and regulations, that while we should for- 
get our cares and labours in mirth and diversion, 
we might not transgress the bounds of innocence 
and decorum : and after agreeing on these, and 
some other regulations, Ave held our first meet- 
ing at Tarbolton, in the house of John Richard, 
upon the evening of the 11th of November, 1780, 
commonly called Hallowe'en, and after choosing 
Robert Burns president for the night, we pro- 
ceeded to debate on this question, 'Suppose a 
young man, bred a farmer, but without any for- 
tune, has it in his power to marry either o'f two 
women, the one a girl of large fortune, but nei- 
ther handsome in person, nor agreeable in con- 
versation, but who can manage the household 
affairs of a farm well enough; the other of them 
a girl every way agreeable in person, conversa- 
tion, and behaviour, but without any fortune: 
which of them shall he chooser" Finding our- 
selves very happy in our society, we resolved 
to continue to meet once a month in the same 
house, in the way and manner proposed, and 






LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS 



shortly thereafter we chose Robert Ritchie for I deed we should include under this term the 
another member. In Mar, 1781, we brought in exercise of the imitative arts, over which taste 
David Sillar, and in June, Adam Jamaison as j immediately presides. Delicacy of taste may be 
members. About the beginning of the year 1T82, 
Ave admitted Matthew Patterson, and John Orr, 
and in June followingwe chose James Patterson 
as a proper brother for such a society. The club 
being thus increased, we resolved to meet at 
Tarbolton on the race niglit, the July following. 
and have a dance in honour of our society. Ac- 
cordingly we did meet, each one with a partner, 
and spent the evening in such innocence and 
merriment, such cheerfulness and good humour, 
that every brother will long remember it with 
pleasure and delight." To this preamble are sub- 
joined the rules and regulations. 

The philosophical mind will dwell with interest 
and pleasure on an institution that combined so 
skiltully the means of instruction and of happi- 
ness ; and if grandeur look down with a smile on 
these simple annals, let us trust that it will be a 
smile of benevolence and approbation. It is with 
regret that the sequel of the history of the 
Bachelor's Club of Tarbolton must be told. It 
survived several years after our poet removed 
from Ayrshire, but no longer sustained bv his 
talents, or cemented by his social affection's, its 
meetings lost much of their attraction; and at 
length, in an evil hour, dissension arising 
amongst its members, the institution was given 
up, and the records committed to the flames. 
Happily the preamble and the regulations were 
spared ; and, as matter of instruction and of ex- 
ample, they are transmitted to posterity. 

After the family of our bard removed from 
Tarbolton to the neighbourhood of Mauchline. he 
and his brother were requested to assist in form- 
ing a similar institution there. The regulations 
of the club at Mauchline were nearly the same 
as those of the club at Tarbolton ; but one laud- 
able alteration was made. The fines for non- 
attendance had at Tarbolton been spent in en- 
larging their scanty potations: at Mauchline it 
was fixed, that the money so arising-, should be set 
apart for the purchase of books: and the first 
work procured in this manner was the "Mirror,' 
the separate numbers of which were at that 
time recently collected and published in volumes. 
After it followed a number of other works, 
chiefly of the same nature, and among these the 
"Lounger." The society of Mauchline still sub- 
sists, and was in the list of subscribers to the 
first edition of the works of its celebrated asso- 
ciate. 

The members of these two societies were ori- 
ginally all young men from the country, and 
chiefly sons of farmers: a description of persons, 
in the opinion of our poet, more agreeable in 
their manners, more virtuous in their conduct, 
and more susceptible of improvement, than the 
self-sufficient mechanic of country towns. With 
deference to the Conversation-society of Mauch- 
line, it may be doubted, whether the books which 
they purchased were of a kind best adapted to 
promote the interest and happiness of persons 
in this situation of life. The ••Mirror " and the 
'•Lounger" though works of great merit, mav 
be said, on a general view of their contents, to 
be less calculated to increase the knowledge. 
than to refine the taste of those who read them; 
and to this last object their morality itself, 
which is however always perfectly pure." may be 
considered as subordinate. As works of taste, 
they deserve great praise. Thev are indeed, re- 
fined to a high degree of delicacv; and to this 
circumstance it is perhaps owing, that they 
exhibit little or nothing of the peculiar manners 
of the age or country in which thev were pro- 
duced. But delicacy of taste, though the source 
of many pleasures, is not without" some disad- 
vantages : and to Bender it desirable, the pos- 
sessor should perhaps in all cases be raised 
above the necessity of bodily labour, unless in- 



a blessing to him who has the disposal of his own 
time, and who can choose what book he shall 
read, of what diversion he shall partake, and 
what company he shall keep. To men so situ- 
ated, the cultivation of taste affords a grateful 
occupation in itself, and opens a path to many 
other gratifications. To men 'of genius, in the 
possession of opulence and leisure, the cultiva- 
tion of the taste may be said to be essential: 
since it affords employment to those faculties 
which, without employment, would destroy the 
happiness of the possessor, and corrects that 
morbid sensibility, or, to use the expression of 
Mr. Hume, that delicacy of passion, which is the 
bane of the temperament of genius. Happy had 
it been for our bard, after he emerged from the 
condition of a peasant, had the delicacy of his 
taste equalled the sensibiltv of his passions, 
regulating all the effusions of his muse, and-pre- 
siding over all his social enjoyments. But to the 
thousands who share the original condition of 
Burns, and who are doomed to pass their lives 
in the station in which they were born, delicacy 
of taste, were it even of easy attainment, would, 
if not a positive evil, be at least a doubtful bless- 
ing. Delicacy of taste may make many neces- 
sary labours irksome or disgusting : and should 
it render the cultivator of the soil unhappy in 
his situation, it presents no means by which that 
situation may be improved. Taste and litera- 
ture, which diffuse so many charms throughout 
society, which sometimes secure to their votaries 
distinction while living, and which still more 
frequently obtain for them posthumous fame, 
seldom procure opulence, or even independence, 
when cultivated with the utmost attention, and 
can scarcely be pursued with advantage by the 
peasant in the short intervals of leisure which 
his occupations allow. Those who raise them- 
selves from the condition of daily labour, are 
usually men who excel in the practice of some 
useful art. or who join habits of industry and 
sobriety to an acquaintance with some of the 
more common branches of knowledge. The pen- 
manship of Butterworth. and the arithmetic of 
Cocker, may be studied by men in the humblest 
walks of life ; and they will assist the peasant 
more in the pursuit of independence, than the 
study of Homer or of Shakspere, though he 
could comprehend, and even imitate, the beauties 
of those immortal bards. 

These observations are not offered without 
some portion of doubt and hesitation. The sub- 
ject has many relations, and would justify an 
ample discussion. It may be observed, on the 
other hand, that the first step to improvement is 
to awaken the desire of improvement, and that 
this will be most effectually done by such read- 
ing as interests the heart and excites the ima- 
gination. The greater part of the sacred writ- 
ings themselves, which in Scotland are more 
especially the manual of the poor, come under 
this description. It may be farther observed, 
that every human being is the proper judge of 
his own happiness, and. within the path of inno- 
cence, ought to be permitted to pursue it. Since 
it is the taste of the Scottish peasantry to give 
a preference to works of taste and of fancy, it 
may be presumed they find a superior gratifica- 
tion in the perusal of such works; and it may be 
added, that it is of more consequence they 
should be made happy in their original condi- 
tion, than furnished with the means, or with the 
desire, of rising above it. Such considerations 
are doubtless of much weight : nevertheless, the 
previous reflections may deserve to be exa- 
mined, and here we shall leave the subject. 

Though the records of the society at Tarbolton 
are lost and those of the society of Mauchline 
have not been transmitted, yet we may safely 



xviii 



affirm, that our pout was a distinguished mem- 
ber of both these associations, which were well 
calculated to excite and to dcvelope the powers 
of his mind. From seven to twelve persons con- 
stituted the society at Tarbolton, and such a 
number is best suited to the purposes of infor- 
mation. Where this is the object of these socie- 
ties, the number should be such, that each per- 
son may have an opportunity of imparting his 
.sentiments, as well as of receiving those of 
others; and the powers of private conversation 
are to be employed, not those of public debate. 
A limited society of this kind, where the subject 
of conversation is fixed beforehand, so that each 
member may revolve it previously in his mind, 
is. perhaps,' one of the happiest' contrivances 
hitherto discovered for shortening the acquisi- 
tion of knowledge, and hastening the evolution 
of talents. .Such an association requires indeed 
somewhat more of regulation than the rules of 
politeness established in common conversation ; 
or. rather, perhaps, it requires that the rules of 
politeness, which in animated conversation are 
are liable to perpetual violation, should be vigo- 
rously enforced. The order of speech established 
in the club at Tarbolton appears to have been 
more regular than was required in so small a 
society; where all that is necessary seems to 
be, the fixing on a member to whom every 
speaker shall address himself, and who shall in 
return secure the speaker from interruption. 
Conversation, which among men whom inti- 
macy and friendship have relieved from reserve 
and restraint, is liable, when left to itself, to so 
many inequalities, and which, as it becomes 
rapid, so often diverges into separate and colla- 
teral branches, in which it is dissipated and lost, 
being kept within its channel by a simple limi- 
tation of this kind, which practice renders easy 
and familial - , flows along in one full stream, and 
becomes smoother and clearer, and deeper, as 
it flows, it may also be observed, that in this 
way the acquisition of knowledge becomes 
more pleasant and more easy, from the gradual 
improvement of the faculty employed to convey 
it. Though some attention has been paid to the 
eloquence of the senate and the bar. which in 
this, as in all other free governments, is produc- 
tive of so much influence to a few who excel in 
it, yet little regard has been paid to the humbler 
exercise of speech, in private conversation, an 
art that is of consequence to every description 
of persons under every form of government, and 
on which eloquence of every kind ought perhaps 
to be founded. 

The first requisite of every kind of elocu- 
tion, a distinct utterance, is' the offspring of 
much time, and long practice. Children are 
always defective in clear articulation, and so 
are young people, though of a less degree. What 
is called slurring in speech prevails with some 
persons through life, especially in those who are 
taciturn. Articulation does not seem to reach 
its utmost degree of distinctness in men before 
the age of twenty, or upwards; in women it 
reaches this point somewhat earlier. Female 
occupations require much use of speech, because 
they are duties in detail. Besides, their occu- 
pations being generally sedentary, the respira- 
tion is left at ."liberty. Their nerves being more 
delicate, their sensibility, as well as fancy, is 
more lively; the natural consequence of which 
is, a more frequent utterance of thought, a 
greater fluency of speech, and a distinct articu- 
lation at an earlier age. But in men who have 
not mingled early and familiarly with the world, 
though rich perhaps in knowledge, and clear in 
apprehension, it is often painful to observe the 
difficulty with which their ideas are communi- 
cated by speech, through the want of those 
habits, 'that connect thoughts, words, and 
sounds together; which, when established. 
seem as if they had arisen spontaneously, but 



BIFF OF ROBERT BUBXK. 

which, in truth, are the result of long and pain- 
ful practice, and. when analyzed, exhibit the 
phenomena of most curious and complicated as- 
sociations. 

Societies then, such as we have been describ- 
ing, while they may be said to put each member 
in possession of the knowledge of all the rest, 
improve the powers of utterance, and by the 
collision of opinion, excite the faculties of reason 
and reflection. To those who wish to improve 
their minds in such intervals of labour as the 
conditions of a peasant allows, this method of 
abbreviating instruction may, under proper re- 
gulations, be highly useful. To the student, 
whose opinions, springing out of solitary obser- 
vation and meditation, are seldom, in the first 
instance, correct, and which have, notwith- 
standing, while confined to himself, an increas- 
ing tendency to assume in his own eye the cha- 
racter of demonstrations, an association of this 
kind, where they may be examined as they 
arise, is of the utmost importance : since it may 
prevent those illusions of imagination, by which 
genius being bewildered, science is often de- 
based, and error propagated through successive 
generations. And to men who. having culti- 
vated letters or general science in the course of 
their education, are engaged in the active occu- 
pations of life, and no longer able to devote to 
study or to books the time requisite for improving 
or preserving their acquisitions, associations of 
this kind, where the mind may unbend from 
its usual cares in discussions of literature or 
science, afford the most pleasing, the most useful, 
and most rational of gratifications. 

Whether, in the humble societies of which he 
was a member, Burns acquired much direct in- 
formation, may perhaps be questioned. It can- 
not, however, be doubted, that by collision, the 
faculties of his mind would be excited, that bv 
practice, his habits of enunciation would be es- 
tablished, and thus we have some explanation 
of that early command of words and of expres- 
sion which enabled him to pour fourth his 
thoughts in language not unworthy of his i 
genius, and which, of all his endowments, 
seemed, on his appearance in Edinburgh, the 
most extraordinary. For associations of 
literary nature, our poet acquired a consider- 
able relish; and happy had it been for him, 
after he emerged from the condition of a pea- 
sant, if fortune had permitted him to enjoy 
them in the degree of which he was capable, so 
as to have fortified his principles of virtue by 
the purification of his taste, and given to the 
energies of his mind habits of exertion that 
might have excluded other associations, 
which it must be acknowledged they were too 
often wasted, as well as debased. 

The whole course of the Ayr is fine; but the 
banks of that river, as it bends to the east- 
ward above Mauchline, are singularly beautiful, 
and they were frequented, as may be imagined, 
by our poet in his solitary walks. Here the 
muse often visited him. In one of these wan- 
derings, he met among the woods a celebrated 
Beauty of the west of Scotland, a lady of whom 
it is said, that the charms of her person corre- 
sponded with the character of her mind. This 
incident gave rise, as might be expected, to a 
poem, of which an account will be found in the 
letter, in which he enclosed it to the object of 
his inspiration : 



To Miss . 

'•:\lAiv,Mr,.— Mossgiel, 18th Nov., 178C. 

"Poetsare such outre beings, so much the chil- 
dren of wayward fancv and capricious whim, 
that I believe the world generally allows them 
a larger latitude in the laws of propriety, than 
the sober sons of judgment and prudence. I 
mention this as an apologyfor the liberties that 
a nameless stranger has taken with you in the i 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



xix 



enclosed poem, -which he beg- leave to present 
you with. Whether it has poetical merit any 
way worthy of the theme, I am not the proper 
judge; but'it is the best my abilities can pro- 
duce ; and what to a good heart will perhaps be 
superior grace, it is equally sincere as fervent. 

"The scenery was nearly taken from real life 
though I dare say. madam, you do not recollect 
it, as I believe you scarcely noticed the poetic 
reveur as he wandered by you. 1 had roved out 
out as chance directed iii the favourite haunts of 
my muse, on the banks of the Ayr, to view 
nature in all the gaiety of the vernal year. The 
evening sun was flaming over the distant wes- 
tern hills ; not a breath stirred the crimson open- 
ing blossom, or the verdant spreading leaf. It 
was a golden moment for a poetic heart. I lis- 
tened to the feathered warblers, pouring their 
harmony on every hand, with a congenial kin- 
dred regard, and frequently turned out of my 
path, lest I should disturb their little songs, or 
frighten them to another station. Surely, said I 
to myself, he must be a wretch indeed who, re- 
gardless of your harmonious endeavour to please 
him, can eye your elusive flights to discover 
your secret recesses, and to rob you of all the 
property nature gives you, your dearest com- 
forts, your helpless nestlings'! Even the hoary 
hawthorn-twig that shot across the way, what 
heart at such a time but must have been in- 
terested in its welfare, ami wished it preserved 
from the rudely bruwsing rattle, or the withering 
eastern blast ? Such was the scene, and such the 
hour, when in a corner of mypi-ospect I spied 
one of the fairest pieces of Nature's workman- 
ship that ever crowned a poetic landscape, or 
met a poet's eye, those visionary birds ex- 
cepted who hold commerce with aerial beings! 
Had Calumny and Villain- taken my walk, they 
had at that moment sworn eternal peace and 
such an object. 

-What an hour of inspiration for a poet! It 
would have raised plain, dull, historic prose into 
metaphor and measure. 

•'The enclosed song was the work of my return 
home; and perhaps it but poorly answers what 
might be expected from such a scene. 

"1 have the honour to be, 
" Madam, 
" Your most obedient, and very 
"humble servant. 
".Robert Burks." 
[The song alluded to is the one commencing, 
" Twas even— the dewy fields were green.'' 

In the manuscript book in which our poet has 
recounted this incident, and into which the letter 
and poem are copied, he complains that the ladv 
made no reply to his effusions, and this appears 
to have wounded his self-love. It is not. how- 
ever, difficult to find an excuse for her silence. 
Burns was at that time little known, and where 
known at all, noted rather lor the will 
of his humour, than for those strains of tender- 
ness, in which he afterwards so much excelled. 
To the lady herself his name had perhaps never 
been mentioned, and of such a poem she might 
not consider herself as the proper judge. Her 
modesty might prevent her from pereeiving that 
the muse of Tibullus breathed in the nameless 
poet and that her beauty was awakening strains 
destined to immortality on the banks of the Avr. 
It may be conceived, also, that supposing the 
verses duly appreciated, delieacv might find it 
difficult to express -its acknowledgments. The 
fervent imagination of the rustic bard possessed 
more of tenderness tlian of respect. Instead of 
raising himself to the condition of the object of 
his admiration, he presumed to reduce her to his 
own. and to strain this high-born beautv to his 
It i in; ■. lUirns might have 



found precedents for such freedoms among the 
poets of Greece and Rome, and indeed of every 
country. And it is not to be denied, that lovely 
women have generally submitted to this sort of 
profanation with patience, and even good 
humour. To what purpose is it to repine at mis- 
fortune which is the necessary consequence of 
their own charms, or to remonstrate with a de- 
scription of men who are incapable of control'.' 

"The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, 
Are of imagination all compact." 

It may easily be presumed, that the beautiful 
nymph 'of Ba'llochmile whoever she may have 
been, did not reject with scorn the adorations of 
our poet, though she received them with silent 
modesty and dignified reserve. 

The sensibility of our bard's temper, and the 
force of his imagination, exposed him in a parti- 
cular manner to the impressions of beauty; and 
these qualities united to his impassioned elo- 
quence gave him in turn a powerful influence 
over the female heart. The banks of the Ayr 
formed the scene of youthful passions, of a still 
tenderer nature, the history of which it would 
be improper to reveal, were it even in our 
power, and the traces of which will soon be dis- 
coverable only in those strains of nature and 
sensibility to which they gave birth. The song 
entitled "Highland Mary," is known to re- 
attachments. "It was 
written." savs our bard, on one of the most in- 
_--s of my youthful days." The 
object oi this pa-sion died in early life', and the 
impression left on the mind of Burns seems to 
have been deep and lasting. Several years 
afterwards, when he was removed to Nithsdale, 
he gave vent to the sensibility of his recollec- 
tions in the impassioned lines addressed "To 
Mary in Heaven," and commencing thus— 
"Thou ling'ringstar, with less'ning ray." 

To the delineations of the poet by himself, by" 
his brother, and by his tutor, these addition's 
are necessary, in order that the reader may see 
his character in its various aspects, and may 
have an opportunity of forming a just notion of 
the variety, as well as the power of his original 
genius. 

" We have dwelt the longer on the early part of 
his life, because it is the least known, and be- 
cause, as has been already mentioned, this part 
of his history is connected with some views of 
the condition and manners of the humblest ranks 
of society, hitherto little observed, and which 
will perhaps be found neither useless nor unin- 
teresting. 

About the time of leaving his native country, 
his correspondence commences ; and in the series 
of letters now given to the world, the chief inci- 
dents of the remaining part of his life will be 
found. This authentic, though melancholy, re- 
cord, will supersede in future the necessity of 
any extended narrative. 

Burns set out for Edinburgh in the month of 
November. 178o, and arrived on the second day 
afterwards, having performed his journey oh 
foot. He was furnished with a letter of intro- 
duction to Dr. Blacklock. from the gentleman to 
whom the doctor had addressed the letter which 
is represented by our bard as the immediate, 
cause of his visiting the Scottish metropolis. He 
was acquainted with Dr. Stewart. Professor of 
Moral Philosophy in the University, and had 
been entertained by that gentleman at Catrine. 
his e-tate in Ayrshire. He had been introduced 
bv Mr. Alexander Dalzell to the Earl of Glen- 
cairn, who had expressed his hp.di approbation 
of his poetical talents. He had friends therefore 
who could introduce him into the circles of lite- 
rature as wellas of fashion, and his own manners 
xceeding every expectation 



at i 



hav 



Bd i 



, lie 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



became an object of general curiosity and admi- 
ration. The following circumstance 'contributed 
to tliis in a considerable degree.— At the time 
■when Burns arrived in Edinburgh, the periodical 
paper, entitled The Lounger, was publishing, 
every Saturday producing a successive number. 
His poems had attracted the notice of the gentle- 
men engaged in that undertaking, and the 
ninety-seventh number of those unequal, though 
frequently beautiful, essays, is devoted to "An 
Account of Robert Burns, the Ayrshire plough- 
man, with extracts from his Poems," written by 
the elegant pen of Mr. Mackenzie. The Lounger 
had an extensive circulation among persons of 
taste and literature, not in Scotland only, but in 
various Darts of England, to whose acquaintance 
therefore our bard was immediately introduced. 
The paper of Mr. Mackenzie was calculated to 
introduce him advantageously. The extracts 
are well selected ; the criticisms and reflections 
are judicious as well as generous; and in the 
style and sentiments there is that happy deli- 
cacy, by which the writings of the author are 
so eminently distinguished. The extracts from 
Burns' poems in the ninety-seventh number of 
The Lounger were copied into the London, as well 
as into many of the principal papers, and the 
fame of our bard spread throughout the island. 
Of the manners, character, and conduct of Burns 
at this period, the following account has been 
given by Mr. Stewart, in a letter to the editor, 
which he is particularly happy to have obtained 
permission to insert in these memoirs. 

Professor Dugald Stewart, of Edixeurgh, to 

Dr. James Cdreie, of Liverpool. 
"The first time I saw Robert Burns was on the 
23rd of October, 1786, when he dined at my house, 
in Ayrshire, together with our common friend, 
Mr. John Mackenzie, surgeon in Mauchline, to 
•vhom I am indebted for the pleasure of his ac- 
ouaintance. I am enabled to mention the date 
particularly, by some verses which Burns wrote 
after he returned home, and in which the day of 
our meeting is recorded.— My excellent and 
much-lamented friend, the late Basil, Lord. Dae r, 
happened to arrive at Catrine the same day, and, 
bv the kindness and frankness of his manners, 
left an impression on the mind of the poet, that 
never was effaced. The verses I allude to are 
among the most imperfect of his pieces; but a 
few stanzas may perhaps be an object of curi- 
osity to you, both on account of tho character to 
which they relate, and of the light which they 
throw on the situation and feelings of the writer, 
before his name was known to the public. 

" I cannot positively say, at this distance of 
time, whether, at the period of our first acquaint- 
ance', the Kilmarnock edition of his poeems had 
been just published, or was yet in the press. I 
suspect that the latter was the case, as I have 
still in my possession copies, in his own hand- 
writing, of some of his favourite performances ; 
particularly of his verses "on turning up a 
Mouse with his plough;"— "on the Mountain 
Daisv;" and " the Lament." On my return to 
Edinburgh, I showed the volume, and mentioned 
what I knew of the author's history, to several 
of my friends, and, among others, to Mr. Henry 
Mackenzie, who first recommended him to pub- 
lic notice in the Oth number of The Lounger. 

"At this time, Burns' prospects in life were so 
extremely gloomy, that he had seriously formed 
a plan of going out to Jamacia in a very humble 
situation, not, however, without lamenting, that 
his want of patronage should force him to think 
of a project so repugnant to his feelings, when 
his ambition aimed at no higher an object than 
the station of an exciseman or a ganger in his 
own country, 

" His manners were then, as they continued 
ever afterwards, simple, manly, and indepen- 
dent; strongly expressive of conscious genius 



and worth; but without anything that indicated 
forwardness, arrogance, or vanity. He took his 
share in conversation, but not more than 
belonged to him; and listened, with apparent 
attention and deference, on subjects where his 
want of education deprived him of the means of 
information. If there had been a little more of 
gentleness and accommodation inhis temper, he. 
would, I think, have been still more interesting ; 
but he had been accustomed to give law in the 
circle of his ordinary acquaintance; and his 
dread of anything approaching to meanness or 
servility, rendered his manner somewhat de- 
cided and hard. Nothing, perhaps, was more re- 
markable, among his various attainments, than 
the fluency, and precision, and originality of his 
language, when he spoke in company; more 
particularly as he aimed at purity in his turn of 
expression, and avoided more successfully than 
most Scotchmen the peculiarities of Scottish 
phraseology. 

"He came to Edinburgh early in the winter 
following, and remained there for several 
months. By whose advice he took this step, I 
am unable to say. Perhaps it was suggested 
only by his own curiosity to see a little more of 
the world ; but, I confess, I dreaded the con- 
sequences from the first, and always wished that 
his pursuits and habits should continue the same 
as in the former part of life; with the addition 
of, what I considered as then completely within 
his reach, a good farm on moderate terms, in a 
part of the country agreeable to his taste. 

"The attentions' he received during his stay in 
town from all ranks and descriptions of persons 
were such as would have turned any head but 
his own. I cannot say that 1 could perceive any 
unfavourable effect which they left on his mind. 
He retained the same simplicity of manners and 
appearance which had struck me so forcibly 
when I first saw him in the country ; nor did he 
seem to feel any additional self-importance from 
the number and rank of his new acquaintance. 
His dress w r as perfectly suited to his station, 
plain and unpretending, with a sufficient atten- 
tion to neatness. If I recollect right, he always 
wore boots ; and, when on more than usual 
ceremony, buckskin breeches. 

"The variety of his engagements, while in 
Edinburgh, prevented me from seeing him so 
often as I could have wished. In the course of 
the spring he called on me once or twice, at my 
request, early in the morning, and walked with 
me to Braid-Hills, in the neighbourhood of the 
town, when he charmed me still more by his 
private conversation, than he had ever done in. ! 
company. He was passionately fond of the 
beauties of nature; and I recollect once he told 
me, when I was admiring a distant prospect in 
one of our morning walks, that the sight of so 
many smoking cottages gave a pleasure to his 
mind, which none could understand who had not 
witnessed, like himself, the happiness and the 
worth which they contained. 

"In his political principles he was then a 
Jacobite: which was perhaps owing partly to 
this, that his father was originally from the 
estate of Lord Mareschell. Indeed he did not 
appear to have thought much on such subjects, 
nor very consistently. He had a very strong 
sense of religion, and expressed deep regret at 
the levity with which he had heard it treated 
occasionally in some convivial meetings which 
he frequented. I speak of him as he was in the 
winter of 1786-7; for afterwards Ave met but sel- 
dom, and our conversations turned chiefly on his 
literarv projects, or his private affairs. 

"I do not recollect whether it appears or not i 
from any of your letters to me, that you had I 
ever seen Burns. If you have, it is superfluous 
for me to add, that the idea which his conversa- 
tion conveyed of the powers of his mind, ex- 
ceeded, if possible, that which is suggested by 




BURKS' FAEM AT ELLISLAND. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BUKN.>. 



xxi 



his writings. Among the poets whom I have 
happened to know. I have been struck, in more 
than one instance, with the unaccountable dis- 
parity between their general talents, and the 
occasional inspirations of their more favoured 
moments. But all the faculties of Burns's mind 
were, as far as I could judge, equally vigorotts ; 
and his predilection for poetry was rather the 
result of his own enthusiastic and impassioned 
temper, than of a genius exclusively adapted to 
that species of composition. From his conver- 
sation I should have pronounced him to befitted 
to excel in whatever walk of ambition he had 
chosen to exert his abilities. 

" Among the subjects on which he was accus- 
tomed to dwell, the characters of the individuals 
with whom he happened to meet was plainly a 
favourite one. The remarks he made on them 
were always shrewd and pointed, though fre- 
quently inclining too much to sarcasm. His 
praise of those he loved was sometimes indiscri- 
minate and extravagant; but this, I suspect, 
proceeded rather from the caprice and humour 
of the moment, than from the effects of attach- 
ment in blinding his judgment. His wit was 
?eady, and always impressed with the marks of 
a vigorous understanding; but. to my taste, not 
often pleasing or happy. His attempts at epi- 
gram, in his printed works, are the only perfor- 
mances, perhaps, that he has produced, totally 
unworthy of his genius. 

"In summer, 1787, I passed some weeks in 
Ayrshire, and saw Burns occasionally. 1 think 
that he made a pretty long excursion that sea- 
son to the Highlands, and that he also visited 
what Beattie calls the Arcadian ground of Scot- 
land, upon the banks of the Teviot and the 
Tweed. 

'■ I should have mentioned before, that not- 
withstanding various reports I heard during the 
preceding winter, of Burns's predilection for 
convivial, and not very select society, 1 should 
have concluded in favour of his habits of 
sobriety, from all of him that ever fell under my 
own observation. He told me indeed himself, 
that the weakness of his stomach was such as to 
deprive him entirely of any merit in his tem- 
perance. I was however somewhat alarmed 
about the effect of his now comparativelv seden- 
tary and luxurious life, when he confessed to 
me, the first night he spent in my house after 
his winter s campaign in town, that he had been 
much disturbed when in bed, by a palpitation at 
his heart, which, he said, was a complaint to 
which he had of late become subject. 

"In the course of the same season I was led by 
.curiosity to attend for an hour or two a Masonic 
•Lodge in Mauchline, where Burns presided. He 
'had occasion to make short, unpremeditated 
compliments to different individuals from whom 
he had no reason to expect a visit, and every- 
thing he said was happily conceived, and 
forcibly as well as fluently expressed. If I am 
not mistaken, he told me,' that in that village, 
before going to Edinburgh, he had belonged to a 
small club of such of the inhabitants as had a 
taste for books, when they used to converse and 
debate on any interesting questions that oc- 
curred to them in the course of their reading. 
His manner of speaking in public had evidently 
the marks of some practice in extempore elocu- 
tion. 

••I must not omit to mention, what I have 
alwavs considered as characterhiical in allien 
degree of true genius, the extreme facilitv and 
good nature of his taste, in judging of the com- 
positions of others, when there was any real 
grounds for praise, r repeated to him many 
passages of English poetry with which lie was 
unacquainted, and have more than once wit- 
nessed the tears of admiration and rapture with 
which he heard them. The collection of songs 
by Dr. Aiken, which I first put into Ilia hands, he 



read with unmixed delight, notwithstanding his 
former efforts in that very difficult species of 
writing; and I have little doubt that it had some 
effect in polishing his subsequent compositions. 

" In judging of prose, I do not think his taste 
was equally sound. I once read to him a pas- 
sage or two in Franklin's works, which I thought 
very happily executed, upon the model of Addi- 
son ; but he did not appear to relish, or to per- 
ceive, the beauty which they derived from their 
exquisite simplicity, and spoke of them with 
indifference when compared with the point, and 
antithesis, and quaintness of " Junius." The in- 
fluence of this taste is very perceptible in his 
own prose compositions, although their great 
and various excellencies render some of them 
scarcely less objects of wonder than his poetical 
performances. The late Dr. Robertson used to 
say, that considering his education, the latter 
seemed to him the more extraordinary of the 
two. 

" His memory was uncommonly retentive, at 
least for poetry, of which he recited to me fre- 
quently long compositions with the most minute 
accuracy. They were chiefly ballads, and other 
pieces in our Scottish dialect ; great part of them 
(he told me) he had learned in his childhood, 
from his mother, who delighted in such recita- 
tions, and whose poetical taste, rude as it pro- 
bably was, gave, it is presumable, the first direc- 
tion of her son's genius. 

"Of the more polished verses which acciden- 
tally fell into his hands in his early years, he 
mentioned particularly the recommendatory 
poems, by different authors, prefixed to 'Her- ; 
vey's Meditations;' a book which has always ! 
had a very wide circulation among such of the 
country people of Scotland, as affect to unite 
some degree of taste with their religious studies, i 
And these poems (although they are certainly 
below mediocrity) he continued to read with a 
degree of rapture beyond expression. He took 
notice of this fact himself, as a proof how much 
the taste is liable to be influenced by accidental 
circumstances. 

"His father appeared to me, from the account 
he gave of him, to have been a respectable and 
worthy character, possessed of a mind superior 
to what might have been expected from his 
station in life. He ascribed much of his own 
principles and feelings to the early impressions 
he had received from his instructions and 
example. I recollect that he once applied to Aim 
(and he added, that the passage was a literal 
statement of fact), the two last lines of the 
following passage in the 'Minstrel,' the whole of 
which he repeated with great enthusiasm:— 
•' ' Shall I be left forgotten in the dust, 

When fate relenting, lets the flower revive; 
Shall nature's voice, to man alone unjust, 



Is it for this fair Virtue oft must strive 

With disappointment, penury, and pain ! 
No ! Heaven's immortal spring shall vet arrive ; 

And man's majestic beauty bloom again, 
Bright through th' eternal year of love's trium- 
phant reign. 
This truth sublime, his simple sire had taught : 
In sooth 'twas almost all the shepherd knew.' 

"With respect to Burns's 'earlv education, I 
cannot say anything with certainty. He alwavs 
spoke with respect and gratitude of the school- 
master who had taught him to read English ; 
and who, finding in his scholar a more than 
ordinary ardour for knowledge, had been at 
pains to instruct him in the grammatical prin- 
ciples of the language. He began the studvof 
Latin, but dropped it before he had finished the 
verbs. I have sometimes heard him quote a few 
Latin words, such as omnia rineit amor, dr.. but 
they seemed to be such a^ he had caught from 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



conversation, and which he repeated by rote. I 
think he had a project alter he came to Edin- 
burgh, of prosecuting the study under his inti- 
mate friend, the late Mr. Nicol, one of the 
masters of the grammar-school here; but I do 
not know if he ever proceeded so far as to make 
the attempt. 

"He certainly possessed a smattering of 
French; and, if he had an affectation 
thing, it was in introducing occasional! 
or a phrase from that language. It is possible 
that his knowledge in this respect might be more 
extensive than I suppose it to be ; but that you 
can learn from his more intimate acquaintance. 
It would be worth while to inquire, whether he 
was able to read the French authors with such 
facility as to receive from them a-ny improve- 
ment to his taste. For my own part." I doubt it 
much— nor would 1 believe it, but on very strong 
and pointed evidence. 

"If my memory does not fail me. he was well 
instructed in arithmetic, and knew something! 
of practical geometry, particularly of surveying. 
—All his other attainments were entirely his 
own. 

"The last time I saw him was during the 
winter, 1785-89; when he passed an evening 
with me at Hrunshough, in the neighbourhood 
of Edinburgh, where. I w^as then living. My 
friend Mr. Alison was the only other in com- 
pany. I never saw him more agreeable or in- 
teresting. A present which Mr. Alison sent 
him afterwards of his 'Essays on Taste,' drew 
from Burns a letter of acknowledgment, which I 
remember to have read with some degree of 
surprise at the distinct conception he appeared 
from it to have formed, of the several principles 
of the doctrine of association. When I sow-Mr. 
Alison in Shropshire last autumn, I forget to in- 
quire if the letter be still in existence. If it is. 
you may easily procure it, by megns of our 
friend Mr. Houlbrooke." 

The scene that opened on our bard in Edin- 
burgh was altogether new, and in a variety of 
other respects highly interesting, especially to 
one of his disposition of mind. To use an ex- 
pression of his own, he found himself "sudd-.-nly 
translated from the veriest shades of life." into 
the presence, and. indeed, into the society, of a 
number of persons, previously known to him by 
report as of the highest distinction in his 
countrv. and whose characters it was natural 
for him to examine with no connno 



r.dinburgh," she is celebrated in . 
j of still greater elevation:— 

•• Fair Hornet strikes th' ad ri ■• . 
Heaven's beauties on nvj 
I ee the .Sire of Love on high, 
And own his works indeed divine !" 
This lovely woman died a few 

• ■ • 

rank and fashion. Bur;:.: 
- 
ot Glencairn. On the motion of this nobleman, 
: .yuan Hunt, fan association of the prin- 
cipal of the nobility am! gentry of Scotland.) 
extended their patronage to our bard, and ad- 
mitted him to their gay orgies. He repaid their 
notice by a dedication' of the enlarged and im- 
proved edition of his poems, in which he has 
. the ir patriotism and independence in 

. •! tul ite my country that the blood of her 

1, roes runs uneontnmuiated; and that, 
from yon; ce-ura-'e, knowledge, and public spirit, 
she may expect protection, wealth, and liberty. 

* * * May corruption shrink at your 
kindling indignant glance: and may tyranny in 
the ruler, and licentiousness in the people, 
equally find in you an inexorable foe !'" 

It is to be presumed that those generous senti- 
ments, uttered at an era singularly propitious to 
independence of character and conduct, were 
favourably received by the persons to whom 
they were addressed, and that they were echoed 
from every bosom, as well as from that of the 
Earl of Glencairn. This accomplished nobleman, 
a scholar, a man of taste and sensibility, died 
soon afterwards. Had he lived, and had Iris 
power equalled his wishes, Scotland might still 
have exulted in the genius, instead of lamenting 
the early fate, of her favourite bard. 

A taste for letters is not always conjoined with . 
habits of temperance and regularity: and Edin- 
burgh, at the period of which we speak, con- 



Fi 


Oil 


the 


me 


tion 




IS 1 


art 


iila 


r. 1 






and, 




.Ft 


V-el 


list 


of 


'■' 





i of letters 
ticularly fit 



•ecep- 
te Dr. 



of 






n proportion of n 
its, devoted to social ex- 
• talents were wasted and 



who interested, ti 



burgh, literary and f 
good deal mixed. Ou 
guest in the gayest a 
and frequently receive 
elegance those attenti 
grateful to him. At th 
frequent gue: 



t elc- 



the so 
the ve 



id i 

1 from fema 
ms above all others m 
table of Ford Monbod 
t; and while he enjoj 
»k of the hospitalities 
s experienced the kii 



friends 
tion .•■•■ their pro- 
ds own conduct 



all the ' ■ nbinations of beauty 
ness. t.ie Creator has formed. 
on the first day of her existeiw 



dissipation, and was I,,,.- 
| Of the state of hi ; mind i 
thentic, though imperfect, document ri 
n hook which he proem 
f..-r ihi- pwrj o- 

cording in ir whatever seemed worthy i 
ration. The foil', vim 
■ 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURXS 



xxiii 



"Edinburgh, April 0, 1787. 
"As I have seen a good deal of human life in 
Edinburgh, a great many characters which are 
new to one bred up in the" shades of life as I have 
been. I ain determined to take down my remarks 
on the spot. Gray observes, in a letter to Mr. 
Palgrave, ' that half a word fixed upon, or near 
the spot, is worth a cart-load of recollection.' I 
don't know how it is with the world in general, 
but with me, making my remarks is by no 
means a solitary pleasure. I want some one to 
laugh with nie, some one to be grave with me, 
some one to please me. and help my discrimi 



vith hi.- 
no doubt, to admin 
tion. The world ai 
suits, ambition, and 

that very few think 
any observation on 



vmark. and, at times, 
acuteness and penetra- 
busied with selfish»pur- 
ty. interest, or pleasure, 
>rth their while to make 
: passes around them, 



except where that observation is a suekei 
or branch of the darling plant they are rearing 
in their fancy. Xow I am sure, notwithstanding 
all the sentimental flights of novel-writers, and 
the sage philosophy of moralists, whether we 
are capable of so intimate and cordial a coalition 
of friendship, as that one man may pour out his 
bosom, his every thought and floating fancy, his 
very inmost soul, with unreserved confidence 
to another, without hazard of losing part of that 
respect which man deserves from man ; or from 
the unavoidable, imperfections attending tinman 
nature, of one daj* repenting his confidence. 

"For these reasons 1 am determined to make 
these pages my confident. I will sketch every 
character that' any way strikes me, to the best 
of my power, with unshrinking justice. I will 
insert anecdotes, and take down remarks, in the 
old law phrase, 'without fend or favour.'— Where 
1 hit on anything clever, my own applause will, 
in some measure, feast my Vanity : and begging 
Patroclns' and Achates' pardon. I think a "lock 
and key a security, at least equal to the bosom 
of any friend whatever. 

"My own private story likewise, my love-ad- 
ventures, my rambles: the frowns and smiles of 
fortune on my hardship; my poems and frag- 
ments, that must never see the light, shall be 
occasionally inserted.— In short, never did four 
shillings purchase so much friendship since con- 
fidence went first to market, or honesty was set 
np for sale. 

"To these seemingly invidious, but too just 
ideas of hitman friendship, I would cheerfully 
make one exemption— the connexion between 
two persons of different sexes, when their in- 
terests are united and absorbed bv the tie of 
love— 
'• When thought meets thought, ere from the lips 

it part. 
And each warm wish springs mutual from the 
heart. 

"There, confidence — confidence that exalts 
them the more in one another's opinion, that 
them the more to each other's hearts. 
edly -reigns and revels.' But this is 
lot; and, in my situation, if I am wise 
by the bye I have no real chance of 
. -. my fate should be cast with the Psalm- 
rrow • to watch alone on the house- 
tops,'— Oh, the pity! 

* * ' * * * 

" There arc few of the sore evils under th" sun 

give me more uneasiness and chagrin than the 

coinpan-ou how a man of renins, nav. of avowed 

rywhere, Aviththe recep- 

.'" a mere ordmarv character, decorated 

with the trapping and futile distinctions of for- 

.-:;ts I imagine a man of abilities, his 

; win- Avjt-h lionest ]. ride, conscious that 

ill born equal, still giving "honour to 

noar is ■.'tie ;' he meets at a great man's 

-quire somethi :uc-bodv : 



he knows the noble landlord, at heart, gives the 
bard, or whatever he is, a share of his good 
wishes, beyond, perhaps, any one at table ; yet 
how will it mortify him to see a fellow, whose 
abilities would scarcely have made an eighteen- 
penny tailor, and whose heart is not worth three 
farthings, meet with attention and notice, that 
are withheld from the son of genius and po- 
verty ? 

"The noble G — : — has wounded sne to the 
soul here, because I dearly esteem, respect, and 
love him. He showed me so much attention- 
engrossing attention, one day, to the only block- 
head at table (the whole company consisted of 
his lordship, dunderpate, and myself), that I 
was within half a point of throwing down my 
gage of contemptuous defiance ; but he shook my 
hand, and looked so benevolently good at part- 
ing. God bless him, though I should never see 
him more. I shall love him until my dying day 1 
I am pleased to think I am so capable of the 
throes of gratitude, as I am miserably deficient 
in some other virtues. 

" With I am more at my ease. I never re- 
spect him with humble veneration; but when 
he kindly interests himself in my welfare, or 
still more when he descends from his pinnacle, 
and meets me on equal ground in conversation, 
my heart overflows with what is called liking. 
When he neglects me for the mere carcass of 
greatness, or when his eye measures the differ- 
ence of our points of elevation, 1 say to myself, 
what do I care for him, or his pomp either'?" 

The intentions of the poet in procuring this 
book, so fully described by himself, were very 
imperfectly executed. He' has inserted into it a 
few or no incidents, but several observations 
and reflections, of which the greater part that 
are proper for the public eye. will be found in- 
terwoven in the volume of his letters. The most 
curious particulars in the book are the delinea- 
tion of the characters he met with. These are 
not numerous; but they are chiefly of persons 
of distinction in the republic of letters, and no- 
thing but the delicacv and respect due to living 
characters prevents us from committing them to 
the press. Though it appears that in his conversa- 
tion he was sometimes di-mosed to sarcastic re- 
marks on the men with whom he lived, nothing 
of this kind is discoverable in these more deli- 
berate efforts of his under landing, which, while 
they exhibit great clearness of discrimination, 
manifest also the wish, as well as the power, to 
bestow high and generous praise. 

By the new edition of his poems, Burns ac- 
quired a sum of money that enabled him. not 
only to partake of the'pleasure. of Edinburgh, 
but to gratify a desire he had long entertained, 
of visiting those parts of his native country, 
most attractive bv their beauty or their gran- 
deur ; a desire which the return of summer 
naturally revived. The scenery on the banks of 
the Tweed, and of its tribntarv streams, strongly 
interested his fancy: and. accordingly, he left 
Edinburgh on the 6th of May, 1787, on a tour 
through a country so much celebrated in the 
rural songs of Scotland. He travelled on horse- 
back, and was accompanied, during some part of 
his journey, by Mr. Ainslie, now writer to the 
signet, a gentleman who enjoyed much of his 
friend-hip and of hi- confidence. Of this tour a 
journal remains, which, however, contains onlv 
occasional remarks on the scenery, and which Is 
chiefly occupied with an account of the author's 
different stages, and with his observations on 
the various characters to whom he was intro- 
duced. In the course of this tour, he visited Mr. 
Ainslie of Berrywel!. the father of his com- 
panion .- Mr. Drydone, the celebrated traveller, 
to whom he carried a letter of introduction from 
Mr. Mackenzie : the Rev. Dr. Somervilie of Jed- 
burgh, the historian: Mr. and Mrs. Scctt of Wan- 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS 



chopc; Dr. Elliot, physician, retired to a roman- 
tic sput on the banks of the Koole; Sir Alexan- 
der Don; Sir James Hall of Douglass; and a 
great variety of other respectable characters. 
Everywhere the fame of the poet had spread 
before him, and everywhere he. received the 
most hospitable and nattering attentions. At 
Jedburgh he continued several days, and was 
honoured bv the magistrates with the freedom 
of their borough. The following may serve as a 
specimen of his tour, which the perpetual refer- 
ence to living characters prevents us giving at 
large. 

"Saturday, May 6. Left Edinburgh— Lammer- 
muir hills, miserably dreary in general, but at 
times very picturesque. 

"Lanson-edge, a glorious view of the Merse. 
Reach Berrywell.' .... The family-meet- 
ing with my compagnon de voyage, very charm- 
ing; particularly the sister. 

"Sunday. Went to church at Dunse. Heard 
Dr. Bowmaker. 

"Monday. Coldstream— glorious river. Tweed 
—clear and majestic— ihi'' bridge— dine at Cold- 
stream with Mr. Ainslie and Mr. Foreman. Beat 
Mr. Ainslie in a dispute about Voltaire. Drink 
tea at Lennel-House with Mr. and Mrs. Bry- 
done Reception extremely flatter- 
ing. Sleep at Coldstream. 

'• Tuesday. Breakfast at Kelso — charming 
situation of the town— fine bridge over the 
Tweed. Enchanting views and prospects on 
both sides of the river, especially on the Scotch 
side. . . . . Visit Roxburgh Palace— fine 
situation of it. Ruins of Roxburgh Castle. A 
holly-bush growing where James the Second 
was accidently killed by the bursting of a can- 
non. A small old religious ruin, and a fine old 
garden planted by the religious, rooted out and 
destroyed by a Hottentot, maitre d' hotel of the 
Duke's ! Climate and soil of Berwickshire, and 
even Roxburghshire, superior to Ayrshire— bad 
roads— turnip and sheep husbandry, their great 
improvements Low markets, conse- 
quently, low lands; magnificence of farmers 
and farm-houses. Come up the Teviot, and up 
the Jed to Jedburgh, to lie, and so wish myself 
good night. 

" Wednesday. Breakfast with Mr. Fair. . 
Charming romantic situation of Jedburgh, with 
gardens and orchards, intermingled among the 
houses and the ruins of a once magnificent 
cathedral. All the towns here have the appear- 
ance of old rude grandeur, but extremely idle. 
Jed, a fine romantic little river. Dined with 
Captain Rutherford return to Jed- 
burgh. Walked up the Jed with some ladies to 
be shown Love Lane, and Blackburn, two fairy 
scenes. Introduced to Mr. Potts, writer, and to 
Mr. Somerville, the clerygman of the parish, a 
man, and a gentleman, but sadly addicted to 



pui 



ling. 



"Jedburgh, Saturday. Was presented by tin 
magistrates with the freedom of the town. 

'•Took farewell of Jedburgh with some melan 
choly sensations. 

"Monday. May 14, Kelso. Dine with the far- 
mer's club— all gentlemen talking of high matter: 
—each of them keeps a hunter from =£30 to £50 
value and attends the fox-hunting club in the 
country. Co out with Mr. Ker, one of the clul 
and a friend of Mr. Ainslie's, to sleep. In his mind 
and manners, Mr. Ainslie's is astonishingly like 
my dear old friend Robert Muir. Everything 
in his hou-i- elegant. He offers to accompany 
me in my English tour. 

•■Tn,:<<l,iii. Dine with Sir Alexander Don; a 

very wet 'day Sleep at Mr. Ker's 

again, and set out next day for Melrose. Visit 
Drvburgh. a fine old ruined abbey, by the way. 
cross the Leader, and come up the Tweed to 
Melrose. Dine there, and visit that far-famed 



glorious ruin. Come to Selkirk up the banks of 
Et trick. The whole country hereabouts, both 
on Tweed and Ettrick. remarkably stony." 

Having spent three weeks in exploring this 
interesting scenery, Burns crossed over into ■ 
Northumberland. Mr. Ker. and Mr. Hood, two 
gentlemen with whom he had become acquainted 
in the course of his tour, accompanied him. lie 
ted Alnwick Castle : the princely seat of the. 
:e of Northumberland; the hermitage and 
old castle of Warkworth; Morpeth and New- 
castle.— In this town he spent two days, and 
then proceeded to the south-west by Hexham 
and Wardrue, to Carlisle.— After spending a few 
days at Carlisle with his friend Mr. Mitchell, he 
returned into Scotland, and at Annan his journal 
terminates abruptly. 

Of the various persons with whom ho becnnni 
acquainted in the course of this journey, he has, 
in general, given some account; and almost 
always a favourable one. That on the banks of 
the Tweed and of the Teviot. our bard should 
find nymphs that were beautiful, is what might 
he confidently presumed. Two of these are par- 
ticularly described in his journal. But it does 
not appear that the scenery, or its inhabitants, 
produced any effort of his muse, as was to have 
been wished and expected. From Annan. Burns 
proceeded to Dumfries, and thence through 
Sanquhar, to Mossgiel. near Mauchline, in Ayr- 
shire, where he arrived about the 8th of June, 
17S7. after an absence of six busy and eventful 
months. It will be easily conceived with what 
pleasure and pride he was received by his 
mother, his brothers, and sisters. He had left 
them poor, and comparatively friendless: he re- 
turned to them high in public estimation, and 
easv in his circumstances. He returned to them 
unchanged in his ardent affections, and ready 
to share with them to the uttermost farthing 
the pittance that fortune had bestowed. 

Having remained with them a few days, he 
proceeded again to Edinburgh, and immediately 
set out on a journey to the Highlands. Of this 
tour no particulars have been found among his 
manuscripts. A letter to his friend Mr. Ainslie, 
dated "Arrachas, near Crochairbas, by Loch- 
leary, June 28, 1787," commences as follows : 

"I write vou this on my tour through a conn- 
try where "savage streams tumble over savage 
mountains, thinlv overspread with savage flocks, 
which starvingly support as savage inhabitants. 
My last stage was Inverary— to-morrow night s 
st;V-e, Dumbarton. I ought sooner to have an- 
swered your kind letter, but you know I am a 
man of many sins." 

From this journey. Burns returned to his 
friends in Ayrshire, with whom he spent the 
month of July, renewed his friendships, and ex- 
tended his acquaintance throughout the county, 
where he was now verv generally known and 
admired. In August he again visit-! Edinburgh, 
whence he undertook another jouritcy towaro ; 
the middle of this month in company with Mr. 
M. Adair, now Dr. Adair of Ilan-owgate ot 
which this gentleman has favoured us with the 
following account ; 

"Burns and 1 left Edinburgh together in 
August, 1787. We rode by Linlithgow and Car- 
ron" to Stirling. We visited the iron-works at 
Carron. with which the poet was forcibly struck. 
The resemblance between that place, and its 
-■- must 



ha 



nted ii 



tants, to 

irrc 

;lf 



. Bi 



powerfully 



ich. 



At i 



id by 



1 fee 



or, pre- 
•ospects 

n ; in a 
tigs had 

' and 



....ich the Scottish 
ParliaineViis'hail Vioquentiy bee n held. His in- 
di-nation had vented itself in some imprudent 
but not unpoetical lines, which had .given much 



$ 1 I 

6>v 



If 



M 




HIGHLAND MARYS IOMB. 



LIFE 01' ROBERT BURNS 



XXV 



offence, and which he took this opportunity of 
erasing, by breaking the pane of the window at 
the inn on which they were written. 

"At Stirling we met with a company of tra- 
vellers from Edinburgh, among whom was a 
character in many respects congenial with that 
of Burns. Tins was Nieol, one of the teachers of 
the High Grammar School at Edinburgh — the 
same wit and power of conversation; the same 
fondness for convival society, and thoughtless- 
ness of to-morrow, characterized both. Jaco- 
bitical principles in politics were common to 
both of them: and these have been suspected, 
since the Revolution of France, to have given 
place to each, to opinions apparently opposite. 
I regret that I have preserved no memorabilia 
of their conversation, either on this or on other 
occasions, when l happened to meet them to- 
gether. Many solids were sung: which I men- 
tion for the sake of observing, that when Burns 
was called on in his turn, lie was accustomed, 
instead of singing, to recite, which, though not 
correct or harmonious, were impressive and 
pathetic. This he did on the present occasion. 

"From Stirling we went next morning throng 
the romantic and fertile vale of Devon to Ha 
vieston, in Clackmannanshire, then inhabited 
by Mrs. Hamilton, with the younger part of 
whose family Bums had been previously ac- 
quainted. He introduced me to the family, and 
there was formed my first acquaintance with 
Mrs. Hamilton's eldest daughter, to whom I 
have been married for nine years. Thus was I 
indebted to Burns for a connexion with which I 
have derived, and expect further to derive, 
much happiness. 

"During a residence of about ten days at Har- 
vieston, we made excursions to visit various 
parts of the surrounding scenery, inferior to 
none in Scotland, in beauty, sublimity, and ro- 
mantic interest: particular*.- Castle Campbell, 
the ancient seat of the family of Argyle : and 
the famous cataract of the Devon, called the 
Cauldron Linn: and the Rumbling Bridge, a 
single broad arch, thrown by the Devil, if tra- 
dition is to bo believed, across the river, at about 
the height of a hundred feet above its bed. I 
am surprised that none of these scenes should 
have called forth an exertion of Burns's muse. 
But I doubt if he had much taste for the pictu- 
resque. I well remember, that the ladies at 
Harvieston. who accompanied us on this jaunt, 
expressed their disappointment at his not ex- 
pressing/in more -lowing and fervid language, 
his impressions of the Cauldron Linn scene, cer- 
tainly highly sublime, and somewhat horrible. 

"A visit to Mrs. Bruce of Clackmannan, a 
lady above ninety, the lineal descendant of that 
race who gave the Scottish throne its brighest 
ornament, interested his feelings more power- 
fully. This venerable dame, with characteris- 
Hcal dignity, informed me. on my observing that 
I believed she was descended from the family of 
Robert Bruce, that Robert Bruce was sprung 
from her family. Though almost deprived of 
speecli by a paralytic affection, she preserved 
her hospitality and urbanity. She was in 
possession of the hero's helmet and two-handed 
sword, with which she conferred on Burns and 
myself the honour of knighthood, remarking, 
that she had a better right to confer that title 

than some people You will of course 

conclude that the old lady's political tenets were 
as Jacobitical as the poet's, a conformity which 
contributed not a little to the cordiality of our 
reception and entertainment, she gave as her 
Rrst toast after dinner, awa Uncos, or, Away 
with the Straituors. " "Who thoic- -tv_ncers were, 
you will readily understand Mrs. A. corrects 
mo bv saying it thon.1 1 be Hooi. cr ifco.V: :. ■■■ :;;•. 
a sound used t ■- sher-.r.ords to direct their dogs 
to drive awav the sheep. 

-"'e return- I to Edinburgh, bv Kinross :n 



the shore of Lochlevenl and yuoensferry. J am 
inclined to think Burns knew nothing of poor 
Michael Bruce, who was then alive at Kinross, 
or had died there a short while before. A meet- 
ing between the bards, or a visit to the deserted 
cottage and early grave of poor Bruce, would 
have been highly interesting. 

■• At Dunfermiine we visited the ruined abbey, 
and the abbey-church, now consecrated to Pres- 
byterian worship. Here 1 mounted the cuttv 
stool. or stool of repentance, assuming the 
character of a penitent for fornication: while 
Burns from the pulpit addressed to me a ludi- 
crous reproof and exhortation, parodied from 
that which had been delivered to himself in Ayr- 
shire, where he had, he assured me. once been 
one of seven who mounted the seat of shame to- 
gether. 

"In the church-yard two broad flag-stones 
marked the grave of Robert Bruce, for whose 
memory Burns had more than common venera- 
tion. He knelt and kissed the stone with sacred 
fervour, and heartily (situs ut mos erat) exe- 
crated the worse than Gothic neglect of the first 
of Scottish heroes." 



The surprise expressed by Dr. Adair, in his 
excellent letter, that the romantic scenery of the 
Devon should have failed to call forth any ex- 
ertion of the poet's muse, is not in its nature 
singular ; and the disappointment felt at his not 
expressing in more glowing language his emo- 
tions on the sight of the famous cataract of that 
river, is similar to what was felt by the friends 
of Burns, on other occasions of the same nature. 
Yet the inference that Dr. Adair seems inclined 
to draw from it. that he had little taste for the 
picturesque, might be questioned, even if it 
stood uncontrovertcd by other evidence. The 
muse of Burns was in a high degree capricious ; 
.me uncalled, and often refused to attend 



biddii 
:ed to 



Of : 



II the 



then 



OUS subjei 



id i 



gd. 



at his 

sugge 
dents, 

The very expectation that a particular oce; 
would excite the energies of fancy, if communi- 
cated to Burns, seemed in him, as in other poets, 
destructive of the effect expected. Hence per- 
haps it may be explained, why the banks of the 
Devon and the Tweed form no part of the subject 
of his song. 

A similar train of reasoning may perhaps ex- 
plain the want of emotion with which he viewed 
the " Cauldron Linn." Certainly there are no 
affections of the mind more deadened by the in- 
fluence of previous expectation, than those 
arising from the sight of natural objects, and 
more especially of objects of grandeur. Minute 
description of scenes, of a sublime nature, should 
never be given to those who are about to view, 
them, particularly if they are persons of great 
strength and sensibility of imagination. Lan- 
guage seldom or never conveys an adequate 
idea of such objects, but in the inind of a great 
poet it mav excite a picture that far transcends 
them. The imagination of Burns might forma 
cataract in comparison with which the "Caul- 
dron Linn " should seem the purling of a rill, and 
even the mighty falls of Niagara a humble cas- 
cade. 

Whether these suggestions may assist in ex- 
plaining our Bard's deficiency of impression on 
the occasion referred to. or* whether it ought 
rather to be imputed to some pre-occupation. or 
indis f osition of mind, we presume not to decide : 
but that he was in genera! feelingly alive to the 
beautiful or sublime, in ?:c-r.ery, may be sup- 
ported by irresistible e-idence. It is true, this 

plcasara v-a- g:e„:.- ;...._: c .m c : ,: 

might Li. excected. who: 1 , combined with moral 
emcticus o: a kind with which ic hay rily unite*. 
That under this association Burns contemplated 



XXVl LIFE OF ROBERT BURKS 

the scenery of the Devon with the eve of a 
genuine poet, the lines, written at this very 
period, may bear witness. I allude to the poems 
commencing, 



The different journeys already mentioned did 
not satisfy the curiosity of Burns. About the 
beginning of September lie again set out from 
Edinburgh, on a more extended tour to the 
Highlands, in company with Mr. Nicol, with 
whom he had contracted a particular intimacy, 
which lasted during the remainder of his life. 
Mr. Nicol was of Dumfries-shire, of a descent 
equally humble with our poet. Like him he rose 
by the strength of his talents, and fell by the 
strength of his passions. He died in the summer 
of 1797. Having received the elements of classi- 
cal instruction at his parish school, Mr. Nicol 
made a very rapid and singular proticiency; and 
by early undertaking the office of an instructor 
himself, he acquired the means oi entering him- 
self at the University of Edinburgh. There he 
was first a student of theology, then a student of 
medicine, and was afterwards employed in the 
assistance and instruction of the graduates in 
medicine, in those parts of their exercises in 
which the Latin language is employed. In this 
situation he was the contemporary and rival of 
the celebrated Dr. Brown, whom he resembled 
in the particulars of his history, as well as in the 
leading features of his character. The office of 
assistant teacher in the High-School being 
vacant, it was, as usual, filled up by competi- 
tion; and, in the face of some prejudices, and 
perhaps of some well-founded objections, Mr. 
Nicol, by superior learning, carried it from all 
the other candidates. This office he filled at the 
period of which we speak. 

It is to be lamented that an acquaintance with 
the writers of Greece and Rome does not always 
supply an original want of taste and correctness 
in manners and conduct; and where it fails of 
this effect, it sometimes inflames the native 
pride of temper, which treats with disdain those 
delicacies in which it has not learned to excel. 
It was thus with the fellow-traveller of Burns. 
Formed by nature in a model of great strength, 
neither his person nor his manners had any 
tincture of taste or elegance; and his coarseness 
was not compensated by that romantic sen- 
sibility, and those towering flights of imagina- 
tion, which distinguished the conversation of 
Burns, in the blaze of whose genius all the de- 
ficiencies of his manners were absorbed and 
disappeared. 

Mr. Nicol and our poet travelled in a post- 
chaise, which they engaged for the journey. 
and, passing through the" heart of the Highland's^ 
stretched northwards, about ten miles beyond 
Inverness. There they bent their course east- 
ward, across the island, and returned by the 
shore of the German Sea to Edinburgh. In the 
course of this tour, some particulars of which 
will be found in a letter of our bard, No. 34, they 
visited a number of remarkable scenes, and the 
imagination of Burns was constantly excited by 
the wild and sublime scenery through which he 
passed. Of this, several proofs may be found in 
the poems formerly printed. Of the history of 
one of these poems, "The Humble Petition of 
Bruar Water," and of the bard's visit to Athole 
House, some particulars will be found in Letters 
No. 33 and No. 34 : and by the favour of Mr. 
Walker, of Perth, then residing in the family of 
the Duke of Athole, we are enabled to give the 
following additional account :— 

"On reaching Blair, he sent me notice of his 
arrival (as I had been previously acquainted 
with him), and I hastened to meet him at the 
inn. The Duke, to whom he brought a letter of 
introduction, was from home • but the Duchess, 



being informed of his arrival, gave him an In- 
vitation to sup and sleep at Athole House. He 
accepted the invitation: but, as the hour of 
supper was at some distance, begged 1 would in 
the interval be his guide through the grounds. 
It was already growing dark; yet the softened, 
though faint and uncertain, view of their beau- 
ties, which the moonlight afforded us, seemed 
exactly suited to the state of his feelings at the 
time. 1 had often, like others, experienced the 
pleasures which arises from the sublime or 
elegant landscape, but I never saw those feel- 
ings so intense as in Burns. When we reached 
a rustic hut on the river Tilt, where it is over- 
hung by a woody precipice, from which there is 
a noble waterfall", he threw himself on the heathy 
seat, and gave himself up to a tender, abstracted. 
and voluptuous enthusiasm of imagination. I 
cannot help thinking it might have been here 
that he conceived the idea of the following lines, 
which he afterwards introduced into his poem, 
on ' Bruar Water,' when only fancying such a 
combination of objects as were now present to 
the eye. 

Or by the reaper's nightly beam, 
Mild, chequering through the trees, 



"It was with much difficulty I prevailed on 
him to quit this spot, and to be introduced in 
proper time to supper. 

"My curiosity was great to see how he would 
conduct himself in company so different from 
what he had been accustomed to. His manner 
Avas unembarrassed, plain, and firm. He ap- 
peared to have complete reliance on ins own 
native good sense for directing his behaviour. 
He seemed at once to perceive and to appreciate, 
what was due to the company and to himself, 
and never to forget a proper respect for the 
separate species of dignity belonging to each. 
He did not arrogate conversation, but, when led 
into it, he spoke with ease, propriety, and manli- 
ness. He tried to exert his abilities, because he 
knew it was ability alone that gave him a title 
to be there. The Duke's fine young family 
attracted much of his admiration; he drank 
their healths as honest men and bontue lassies, an 
idea which was much applauded by the company, 
and with which he has very felicitously closed 
his poem. 

"Next day I took a ride with him through 
some of the most romantic parts of that neigh- 
bourhood, and was highly gratified by his con- 
versation. As a specimen of his happiness of 
conception and strength of expression, I will 
mention a remark which he made on his fellow- 
traveller, who was walking at the time a few 
paces before us. He was a man of a robust but , 
clumsy person; and while Burns was express- 
ing to me the value he entertained for him, on 
account of his vigorous talents, although they 
were clouded at times by coarseness of manners; 
'in short,' he added, 'his mind is like his body; 
he has a confounded strong in-knee'd sort of a 
soul." 

"Much attention was paid to Burns both 
before and after the Duke's return, of which he 
was perfectly sensible, without being vain; and 
at his departure I recommended to him, as the 
most appropriate return he could make, to write 
some descriptive verses on any of the scenes 
with which he had been so much delighted. 
After leaving Blair, he, by the Duke's advic 
visited the Falls of Bruar, and, in a few days, 
received a letter from Inverness, with the verses 
enclosed." 

It appears that the impression made by our 
poet on the noble family of Athole was in a high 
degree favourable: it is certain he was charmed 
with the reception lie received from them, and 
he often mentioned the two days he spent at ' 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS 



Athole House as among the happiest of his life, 
lie -was warmly invited to prolong his stay, but 
sacrificed his inclinations to his engagement 
with Mr. Nieol; which is the more to be re- 
gretted, as he would otherwise have been in- 
troduced to Mr. Dundas (then daily expected on 
a visit to the Duke), a circumstance that might 
have had a favourable influence on Burns's 
future fortunes. At Athole House, he met, for 
the lirst time, Mr. Graham, of Fintry, to whom 
he was afterwards indebted for his office in the 
Excise. 

The letters and poems which he addressed to 
Mr. Graham, bear testimony of his sensibility. 
and justify the supposition, that he would nof 
have been deficient in gratitude had he been ele- 
vated to a situation better suited to his disposi- 
tion and to his talents. 

' A few days after leaving Blair Athole, our 
poet and his fellow-traveller arrived at Focha- 
bers. In the course of the preceding winter 
Burns had been introduced to the Duchess of 
Gordon at Edinburgh, and presuming on his 
acquaintance, he proceeded to Gordon Castle, 
leaving 31r. Xicol at the inn in the village. At 
the castle our poet was received with the utmost 
hospitality and kindness, and the family being 
about to sit down to dinner, he Avas invited to 
take his place at the table, as a matter of course. 
This invitation he accepted; and after drinking a 
few glasses of wine, he rose up and proposed "to 
withdraw. On being pressed to stay, he men- 
tioned, for the first time, his engagement with 
his fellow-traveller: and his noble host offering 
to send a servant to conduct Mr. JN'icol to the 
castle. Burns insisted on undertaking that office 
himself. He was. however, accompanied by a 
gentleman, a particular acquaintance of the 
Duke, by whom the invitation was delivered in 
all the forms of politeness. The invitation came 
too late ; the pride of g>icol was flamed to a high 
degree of passion by the neglect which he had 
already suffered. He had ordered the horse to 
be put to the carriage, being determined to pro- 
ceed on his journey alone : and they found him 
Sarading the streets of Fochabers, before the 
oor of the inn, venting his anger on the pos- 
tilion for the slowness with which he obeyed his 
commands. As no explanation nor entreat v 
could change the purpose of his fellow-traveller, 
our poet was reduced to the necessity of separa- 
ting frnm himentirelv. or of instantly proceeding 
with him on their journey. Pie chose the last of 
these alternatives: and seating himself beside 
2s'icol in the post-chaise, with mortification and 
regret, he turned his back on Gordon Castle, 
where he had promised himself some happv davs. 
Sensible, however, of the great kindness of the 
noble family, he made the best return in his 
power, by the poem commencing, 
I "Streams that glide in orient plains." 
Burns remained in Edinburgh during the 
greater part of the winter, 1787-8, and again en- 
tered into the society and dissipation of that 
metropolis. It appears that on the 31st day of 
December, he attended a meeting to celebrate 
the birth-day of the lineal descendant of the 
Scottish race of kings, the late unfortunate 
Prince Charles Edward. Whatever might have 
been the wish or purpose of the original institu- 
tors of this annual meeting, there is no reason to 
snppose that the gentlemen of which it was at 
this time composed, were not perfectly loval to 
the king and the throne. It is not to be" con- 
ceived that they entertained any hope of, any 
wish for, the restoration of the House of Stuart"; 
but. over their sparkling wine, thev indulg-d 
the generous feelings which the recollection of 
fallen greatness is calculated to inspire; and 
commemorated the heroic valour which strove 
to su = :ain it in vain— valour worthy of a nobler 
cause and a happier fortune. On tills occasion 



our bard took upon himself the office of poet- 
laureate, and produced an ode, which, though 
deficient in the complicated rhythm and polished 
versification that such composition require, 
might, on a fair competition, where energy of 
feeling and of expression were alone in question, 
have won the butt of Malmsey from the real 
laureate of that day. I allude to the fragment 
commencing, 

" False flatterer, Hope, away!" 
In relating the incidents of our poet's life in 
Edinburgh, we ought to have mentioned the 
sentiments of respect and svmpathv with which 
he traced out the grave of his predecessor Fer- 
guson, over whose ashes, in the Canongate 
church-yard, he obtained leave to erect a monu- 
ment, which Avill be viewed by reflecting minds 
with no common interest, and which will awake, 
in the bosom of kindred genius, many a high 
emotion. Neither should we pass over the con- 
tinued friendship he experienced from a poet 
then living, the amiable and accomplished 
Blacklock —To his encouraging advice it was 
owing (as has already appeared) that Burns, in- 
stead of emigrating to the West Indies, repaired 
to Edinburgh. He received him there with all 
the ardour of affectionate admiration ; he bla- 
zoned his fame; he lavished upon him all the 
kindness of a generous heart into which nothing 
selfish or enviousever found admittance. Among 
the friends whom he introduced to Burns was 
Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, to whom our poet 
paid a visit in the Autumn of 1787, at his delight- 
ful retirement in the neighbourhood of Stirling, 
and on the banks of the Teith. Of this Ave have 
the following particulars : 

" I have been in the company of many men of 
genius," says Mr. Ramsay, '-some of them poets, 
but never Avitnessed such flashes of intellectual 
brightness as from him, the impulse of the mo- 
ment, sparks of celestial fire! I neA'er was more 
delighted, therefore, than with his company for 
two days, tete-a-tete. In a mixed company I 
should haA-e made little of him; for in the game- 
ster's phrase, he did not always know when to 
play off and Avhen to play on. . . . I not only 
proposed to him the writing of a play similar to 
the ' Gentle Shepherd,' qualem decet esse sororem, 
but Scottish georgics, a subject which Thomson 
has by no means exhausted in his Seasons. 
What beautiful landscapes of rural life and 
manners might not have been expected from a 
pencil so faithful and so forcible as his, Avhich 
could have exhibited scenes as familiar and in- 
teresting as those in the ' Gentle Shepherd,' 
which eA-ery one who knows our swains in the un- 
adulterated state, instantly recognises as true to 
nature. But to have executed either of these 
plans, steadiness and abstraction from company 
were wanting, not talents. When I asked him 
whether the Edinburgh Literati had mended his 
poems by their criticisms, ' Sir,' said he, 'these 
gentlemen remind me of some spinsters in my 
country, who spin their thread so fine that it i"s 
neither fit for weft nor woof.' He said he had 
not changed a word except one, to please Dr. 
Blair." 

Having settled Avith his publisher. Mr. Creech, 
in February, 1788, Burns found himself master of 
nearly fiA-e hundred pounds, after discharging 
all his expenses. Two hundred pounds he imme- 
diately advanced to his brother Gilbert, who 
had taken upon himself the support of their aged 
mother, and Avas struggling Avith many diffi- 
culties in the fai;m of-Mossgicl. With "the re- 
mainder of this sum, and some further eventual 
profits from his poems, he determined on settling 
himself for life in the occupation of agriculture, 
and tooki from Mr. Miller, of Dalswinton, the 
farm of Ellisland, on the banks of the river Nith, 
six miles aboA-e Dumfries, on which he entered 
at Whitsunday, 1788. Having been previously 



X.Will 

recommended to the Board (.if Excise, his name 
had been put on the list of candidates for the 
humble office of a gauger, or exciseman ; and lie 
immediately applied to acquiring the informa- 
tion necessary for filling that office, when the 
honourable Board might judge it proper to em- 
ploy him. 

lie expected to he called into sen-ice in the 
district in which his farm was situated, and 
vainly hoped to unite with success the labours 
of the farmer with the duties of exciseman. 

When Burns had in this manner arranged his 
plans for futuritv. his generous heart turned 



1.1 IB OF KOBKBT BL'BNS. 



.1 th 



obje. 



Of 



alt: 



hose of 



i, thus legal- 
it permanent 



and listening 

honour and affection, he jo 
a public declaration of mat 
izing their union, and rende 
for life. 

Before Burns was known in Edinburgh, a 
specimen of his poetry had recommended him to 
Mr. Miller of Dalswihton Understanding that 
he intended to resume the life of a farmer, Mr. 
Miller had invited him, in the spring of 1787, to 
view his estate in Xithsdale, offering him at the 
same time the choice of any of his farms out of 
lease, at such a rent as Burns and his friends 
might judge proper. It was not in the nature of 
Burns to take an undue advantage of Mr. Miller. 
He proceeded in his business, however, with 
more than usual deliberation. Having made 
choice of the farm of Ellisland, he employed two" 
of his friends skilled in the value of land to exa- 
mine it, and, with their approbation, offered a 
rent to Mr. Miller, which was immediately ac- 
cepted It was not convenient for Mrs. Burns to 
remove immediately from Ayrshire, and our 
poet therefore took up his residence alone at 
Ellisland, to prepare for the reception of his 
wife and children, who joined him towards the 
end of the year. 

The situation in which Burns now found him- 
self was calculated to awaken reflection. The 
different steps he had of late taken were in their 
nature highly important, and might he said to 
have, in some measure, fixed his destiny. He had 
become a husband and a father : he had engaged 
in the management of a considerable farm, a diffi- 
cult and laborious undertaking : in his success the 
happiness of his family were involved; it was 
time, therefore, to abandon the gaiety and dissi- 
pation of which he had been too much ena- 
moured ; to ponder seriously on the past, and 
to form virtuous resolutions respecting the fu- 
ture. That such was actually the state of his 
mind, the following extract from his common- 
place book may bear witness : — 

"Ellisland, Sunday, 14th June, 1788. 
'•This is now the third day that I have been 
in this country. 'Lord, what is man!' What a 
bustling little bundle of passions, appetites, 
ideas and fancies 1 and what a capricious kind of 
existence he has here ! . . There is indeed an 
elsewhere, where, as Thomson, says, virtue sole 
survives. 

"Tell us, ye dead: 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret. 
What 'tis you are, and we must shortly be 't 

A little time 

Will make us wise as you are, and as close." 

"I am such a coward in life, so tired of the 

servP-e, that f would almost at any time, with 

Milton's Adam, ' gladly lay me in my mother's 

But a vile, and children bind me to struggle 
vith the ..-..._ till some sudden squallshall 
c -eriit the -illy vess< 1, or in the listless return 
of years, its own crazL^si reduce it to a wreck 

Farewell now to thee giddy follies, those var- 
nished vices, whkh though half-siaciirifed t v 
the bewitching levitv of wit and humour; are ■■•■ 



best hut thriftless idling with the precious cur- 
rent of existence: nay, often poisoning the 
whole, that, like the 'plains of Jericho, the water 
is naught and the ground barren, and nothing 
short of a supernaturally gifted Elisha can ever 
after heal the evils. 

"Wedlock, the circumstance that buckles me 
hardest to care, if virtue and religion were to be 
anything with me but names, was what in a 
fi \V seasons I must have resolved on; in my 
present situation it was absolutely necessary. 
Humanity, generosity, honest pride of charac- 
ter, justice to my own happiness in after life, so 
far as it could depend (which it surely will a 
great deal) on internal peace;— all these joined 
their warmest suffrages, their most powerful 
solicitations, with a rooted attachment, to urge, 
the step I have taken. Nor have I any reason 
on Jtvr part to repent it. I can fancy how. but 
have never seen where, I could have made a 
better choice. Come, then, let me act up to 
my favourite motto, that glorious passage in 
Young, 

' On reason build resolve. 
That column of true majesty in man !' " 

Under the impulse of these reflections, Burns 
immediately engaged in rebuilding the dwelling- 
house on his farm, which, in the state he found 
it, was inadequate to the accommodation of his 
family. On this occasion, he himself resumed at 
times the occupation of a labourer, and found 
neither his strength nor his skill impaired. 
Pleased with surveying the grounds he was 
about to cultivate, and with the rearing of a 
building that should give shelter to his wife and 
children, and, as he fondly hoped, to his own 
grey hairs, sentiments of independence buoyed 
up his mind, pictures of domestic content and 
pee.ee rose on his imagination ; and a few days 
passed away, as he himself informs us, the 
most tranquil, if not the happiest, which he had 
ever experienced. 

It is to be lamented that at this critical perioj 
of Ids life, our poet was without the society of 
his wife and children. A great change had 
taken place in his situation; his old habits were 
broken ; and the new circumstances in which he 
was placed were calculated to give a new direc- 
tion to his thoughts and conduct. But his ap- 
plication to the cares and labours of his farm 
was interrupted by several visits to his family 
in Ayrshire ; and as the distance was too great 
for a* single day's journey, he generally spent a 
night at an inn on the road. On such occasions, 
he sometimes fell into company, and forgot the 
resolutions he had formed. In a little while 
temptation assailed him near home. 

His fame naturally drew upon him the atten- 
tion of his neighbours, and lie soon formed a. 
general acquaintance in the district in which be! 
lived. The public voice had now pronounced oni 
the subject of his talents; the reception he had 
met with in Edinburgh had given him the cur-! 
rency which fashion bestows; he had sur-J 
mounted the prejudices arising from his humble 
birth, and he was received at the table of the: 
ireiiilemen at jS'ithsdalc with welcome, with! 
kindness, and even with respect. Their' social, 
parties too often seduced him from his rustic; 
labours and his rustic fare, overthrew the un-i 
steady fabric, of his resolution, and inflamed 
those propensities which temperance might havi 
v. i aliened, and prudence ultimately suppressed 
II was not long, therefore, before "Burns began: 
to view his farm with dislike and despondence, 
if not with disgust. 

Unfortunately he had for several years lcokM 
to an office in the Excise as a certain rneandm 
livelihood, should his other expectations foil. M\ 
his ulio.'dv been mentioned, ho had . . 
re< mmended to the Board of Excise, and 1r.it 
1 icei'-ed the- instructions necessary for such 8 




LINCLUDEN ABBEY, A FAVOURITE RESORT OF BURNS. 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 



situation. lie now applied to be employed; and 
by the interest of Mr. Graham of Fintra, was 
appointed to be exciseman, or, as is vulgarly 
called, gauger, of the district in which he lived. 
His farm was, after this, in a great measure 
abandoned to servants, while he betook himself 
to the duties of his new appointment. 

He might indeed still be seen in the spring, 
directing his plough, a labour in which he ex- 
celled ; or with a white sheet containing his 
seed-corn, slung across his shoulders, striding 
witli measured steps along his turned-up fur- 
rows, and scattering the grain in the earth, but 
his farm no longer occupied the principal part of 
his care or his thoughts. It was not at Ellis- 
land that he was now in general to be found. 
Mounted on horseback, this high-minded poet 
was pursuing the defaulters of the revenue, 
among the hills and vales of Nithsdale, his 
roving eye wandering over the charms of nature 
and muttering his wayward fancies as he moved 
along. 

"I had an adventure with him in the year 
1790," says Mr. Ramsay of Ochtertyre, in a 
letter to the editor, "when passing through 
Dumfries-shire, oh a tour to the south, with 
Dr. Steuart of Luss. Seeing him pass quickly 
near Closeburn, I said to ray companion -that is 
Burns.' On coming to the inn, the hostler told 
us he would be back in a few hours to grant 
permits; that where he met with anything 
seizable he was no better than any other 
ganger, in everything else, he was a perfect 
gentleman. After leaving a note to be delivered 
to him on his return, I proceeded to his house, 
being curious to see his Jean. &c. I was much 
pleased with his uxor tiabina quahs, and the 
poet's modest mansion, so unlike the habitation 
of ordinary rustics. In the evening he suddenlv 
bounced in upon us, and said, as he entered, 
I come, to use the words of Shakspere, 'stewed 
in haste.' In fact, he had ridden incredibly fast, 
after receiving my note. We fell into conversa- 
tion directly, and soon fell into the me?e magnum 
of poetry. He told me that he had now gotten 
a story for a drama, which he was to call 'Rob 
Macquechan's Elshoiv from a popular storv of 
Robert Bruce being defeated on the water of 
Cseer, when the heel of his boot having loosened 
in his flight, he applied to Robert Macquechan 
to fix it; who, to make sure, ran his awl nine 
inches up the king's heel. We were now going 

on at a great rate, when Mr. S popped in his 

head, which put a stop to our discourse, which 
had become very interesting. Yet in a little 
while it was resumed ; and such was the force and 
versatility uf the bard's genius, that he made the 

tears run down Mr. S 's cheeks, albeit unused 

to the poetic strain. * * * From that 
time we met no more, and I was grieved at the 
reports of him afterwards. Poor Burns! we 
shall hardly ever sec his like again. He was, in 
truth, a sort of comet in literature, irregular in 
its motions, which did not do good proportioned 
to the blaze of light it displaved." 

In the summer of 17!1. two \English gentlemen, 
who had before met with him in Edinburgh. 
made a visit to him at Ellis-land. On calling at 
the house, they were imformed that he had 
walked out on the banks of the river; and dis- 
mounting from their horses, thev proceeded in 
search of him. On a rock thatprojected into the 
stream, they saw a man employed in angling, of 
a singular appearance. He had a can made of a 
fox's -kin on his head, a loose great-coat fixed 
round him by a belt, from which defended an 
enormous highland broadsword. It was Burns. 
He received them with cordialitv, and asked 
them to share his humble dinner— an invitation 
which they accepted. On the table thev found 
boiled beef, with vegetables aad broth, after the 
manner of Scotland, of which thev partook 
heartilv, After dinner, the bard told them in- 



genuously that he had no wine to offer them, 
nothing better than Highland whisky, a bottle 
of which Mrs. Burns set on the board. He pro- 
duced at the same time his punch -bowl made of 
Inverary marble, and mixing the spirits with 
water and sugar, filled their glasses, and in- 
vited them to drink. The travellers were in 
haste, and besides, the flavour of the whisky to 
their sonthron palates was scarcely tolerable ; 
but the generous poet offered them his best, and 
his ardent hospitality they found it impossible to 
resist. Burns was in his happiest mood, and the 
charms of his conversation were altogether fas- 
cinating. He ranged over a great Variety of 
topics, illuminating whatever he touched. He 
related the tales of his infancy and of his youth ; 
he recited some of the gayest and some'of the. 
tenderest of his poems; in the wildest of his 
strains of mirth, he threw in touches of melan- 
choly, and spread around him the electric emo- 
tions of his powerful mind. The highland 
whisky improved in its flavour; the marble 
bowl was again and again emptied and replen- 
ished ; the guests of our poet forgot the flight 
of time, and the dictates of prudence : at the 
hour of midnight they lost their way in return- 
ing to Dumfries, and v could scarcely distinguish 
it when assisted by the morning's dawn. 

Besides his duties in the Excise and his social 
pleasures, other circumstances interfered with 
the attention of Burns to his farm. He engaged 
in the formation of a society for purchasing and 
circulating books among the farmers of his 
neighbourhood, of which he undertook the 
management ; and he occupied himself occa- 
sionally in composing songs for the musical work 
of Mr. Johnson, theu in the course of publica- 
tion. These engagements, useful and honour- 
able in themselves, contributed, no doubt, to 
the abstraction of his thoughts from the business 
of agriculture. 

The consequences may be easily imagined. 
Notwithstanding the uniform prudence and 
good management of Mrs. Burns, and though 
his rent was moderate and reasonable, our poet 
found it convenient,- if not necessary, to resign 
his farm to Mr. Miller; after having occupied it 
three years and a half. His office in the Excise 
had originally produced about fifty pounds per 
annum. Having acquitted himself to the satis- 
faction of the Board, he had been appointed to 
a new district, the emoluments of which rose to 
about seventy pounds per annum. Hoping to 
support himself and his family on this humble 
income till promotion should reach him, he dis- 
posed of his stock and of his crop on Ellisland 
by public auction, and removed to a small house 
which he had taken in Dumfries, about the end 
of the year] 791. 

Hitherto, Burns, though addicted, to excess, in 
social parties, had abstained from the habitual 
use of strong liquors, and his constitution had 
not suffered any permanent injury from the 
irregularities of his conduct. In Dumfries, 
temptation to the sin that so easily beset him con- 
tinually presented themselves : and his irregu- 
larities grew by degrees, into habits. These 
temptations unhappily occurred during his en- 
gagements in the business of his office, as well 
as during his hours of relaxation; and though 
he clearly foresaw the consequences of yielding 
to them.' his appetites and sensations, which 
could not pervert the dictates of his judgment, 
finally triumphed over all the powers of his will. 
Yet this victory was not obtained without many 
obstinate struggles, and at times, temperance 
and virtue seemed to have obtained the mastery. 
Besides his engagements in the Excise, and the 
society into which they led, many circum- 
stances contributed to the melancholy fate of 
Burns. His great celebrity made him an object 
of interest arid curiosity to strangers, and few 
persons of cultivated "minds passed through 



XXX 

Dumfries without attempting to see our poet, 
ami to cnjovthe pleasure of 1iis conversation. 
As he could not receive them under his own 
humble roof, these interviews passed at the 
inns of the town, and often terminated in those 
excesses which Burns sometimes provoked, and 
■was seldom able to resist. And among the in- 
habitants of Dumfries and its vicinity, there 
were never wanting persons to share his social 
pleasures ; to lead or accompany him to the 
tavern; to partake in the wildest sallies of his 
wit : to witness the strength and degradation of 
his genius. 

Still, however, he cultivated the society of 
persons of taste and respectability, and in their 
companv would impose on himself the restraints 
of temperance and decorum. Nor was his lmi.-e 
dormant. In the four years which he lived in 
Dumfries, he produced many of his beautiful 
lyrics, though it does not appear that he at- 
tempted anv poem of considerable length. 
During this "time, he made several excursions 
into the neighbouring country, of one ot which. 
through Galloway, an account is preserved in a 
letter of Mr. Slyme. written soon after ; which, 
as it Lives an animated picture of him by a cor- 
rect and masterly hand, we shall present to the 
reader. 

••I got Burns a grey Highland shelty to ride 
on. We dined the first clav, 27th July, 1793. at 
Glendenwvnes of Barton ; a beautiful situation 
on the banks of the Dee. In the evening we 
walked out. and ascended a gentle eminence, 
from which we had as fine a view of Alpine 
scenerv as can well be imagined. A delightful 
soft evening showed all its wilder as w-ell as its 
grander graces, Immediately opposite, and 
within a mile of us, we saw Airds, a charming 
romantic place, where dwelt Low. the author <>r 
' Mary, weep no more forme.' This was clas- 
sical ground for Burns. He viewed ' the highest 
hill which rises o'er the source of Dee:' and 
would have staid till -the passing spirit ' had 
appeared, had we not resolved to reach Ken- 
more thrft night. We arrived as Mr. and Mrs. 
Gordon were sitting down to supper. 

"Here is a genuine barons seat. The castle, 
an old building, stands on a large natural moat. 
In front, the river Ken winds tor several miles 
through the most fertile and beautiful holm, till 
it expands into a lake twelve miles long, the 
banks of which, on the south, present a fine and 
soft landscape of green knolls, natural woods, 
and here and there a grey rock. On the north, 
the aspect is great, wild, and, I may say, tre- 
mendous. In short, I can scarcely conceive a 
scene more terribly romantic than the Castle ot 
Kenmore. Burns thinks so highly of it, that he 
meditates a description of it in poetry. Indeed, 
I believe he has begun the work. We spent 
three days with Mr. Gordon, whose polished 
hospitalitV is of an original and endearing kind. 
Mrs. Gordon's lap-dog. Echo, was dead, she 
would have an epitaph for him. Several had 
been made. Burns was asked for one. 1 his was 
setting Hercules to his distaff, lie disliked the 
subject; but, to please the lady, he would try. 
So lie produced the poem commencing, 

" ' In wood and wild, ye warbling throng." 

"We left Kenmore. and went to Gatehouse. 
1 took him the moor-road, where savage and 

e regions extended wide a, 
skv was sympathetic with the wretchedness of 
The soil: i't heeame lowering and dark. The hoi- 
low winds sighed, the lightnings gleamed, the 
thunder rolled. The poet ei. joyed the awful 
scene— he spoke not a word, but seemed rapt in 
meditation. In a little while the rain lagan to 
fall: it poured in floods upon us. For three 
hours did the wild elements rmnhle their hellii.tull 
upon our defenceless heads. (,!,. oh! ' tints foul. 
V,'e got utterly wet; a ourselves, 



LIFE OF ROBERT BURKS. 

Burns insisted at Gatehouse on our getting! 

utterly drunk. 1 

•• From Gatehouse we went next day to Kirk-I 
cud! right, through a fine country. But here II 
must tell vou that Burns had got a pair oljemmym 
boots for the- journev. which had been thoroughly! 
wet. and which had beendried in such a manner! 
that it was not possible to get them on again.— ! 
The brawnv poet tried force, and tore them to k 
shreds. A whirling vexation of this sort is more 
trying to the temper than a serious calamity.. 
YVc were going to Saint Mary's Isle, the seat of 
the Earl of Selkirk, and the forlorn Burns was * 
discomfited at the thought of his ruined boots. 
A sick stomach and a heartache lent their aid. :i 
and the man of verse was quite accable. I at-! 
tempted to reason with him. Mercy on us, how!; 
he did fume and rage ! Nothing could reinstate* 
him in temper. I tried various expedients, and! 
at last hit on one that succeeded. I showed bin 
the house of • • • • across the bay of YVigton. . 
Against. • • • with whom he was offended, he! 
expectorated his spleen, and regained a most!. 
agreeable temper. He was in a most epigram* 
matic humour indeed! He afterwards fell oil 

humbler game. There is one whom 

he does not love. He had a passing blow at him 
in the lines commencing, 

-•When deceased, to the devil went 

down.' 
"Well, I am to 1 u-ing vou to Kirkcudbright alonp 
with our poet, without hoots. I carried the ton 
ruins across n:v saddle in spite of his fulminai 
tions. and in contempt of appearances; andv\ 
is more. Lord Selkirk carried them in his coacl 
to Dumfries. He insisted they were worth 
mending , , , 

•'We reached Kirj.-cudhright aaom one o clock 
I had i.romised that we should dine with one ot 
the first men in our country, J. Dalzell. Bui 
Burns was in a wild and obstreperous humour 
and swore that he would not dine where h< 
should be under the smallest re-traint. Wt 
prevailed, therefore, on Mr. Dalzell to dine witl 
us in the inn. and had a very agreeable party. 
In the evening we set out for St. .Mary's isle 
Robert had not absolutely regained the milki) 
ness of good temper, and it occurred once i 
twice to him. as he rode along, that St. Mary 
Isle was the seat of a lord; yet that lordwa 
not an aristocrat, at least in his sense of the 
word. We arrived about eight o'clock, as tin 
family were at tea and coffee. St. Mary's Isk 
is one of the most delightful places that can. in 
my opinion, be formed by the assen I 
every soft but not tame object which constitute.- 
natural and cultivated beauty. But not to dwel 
on its external graces, let me tell yon that wo 



d all the ladies of the family 
at home, and some strangers; and amongoti 
who but Urbani! The Italian sung us n 
Scottish songs, accompanied with instrume 
music. The two yoring ladies of Selkirk i 
also. Wo had the song of Lor,', Gi - 
I asked for. to have an npi ortunity or calling oi 
Burns to recite his ballad to that tune. He du 
recite it: and such was the effect, that a deac 
silence ensued. It was such a silence as a innii 
of feeling naturally preserves wlK-n it is tonchec 
with that enthusiasm which famishes every' 
other thought hut the contemplation and mdiih 
gei.ee of the ^vmpathv produced. Burns Lon, 
Gregory is. in my opinion, a most beautiful am. 
affecting ballad/ The fastidious critic may per 
haps say, some of the sentiments and imagery 
are of too elevated a kind for such a style o 
composition: for instance. 'Thou bolt of Heaven 
that passestby;' and. ' Ye mustering thunder. 
Arc. : but this i's a cold-blooded objection, wind 
will he said rather than/eft. 

"We enjoved a most liappv evening at Lore 
Selkirk's. We had. in every sense of the word 



LIFE OF KCBEirr BtKlX::, 
:1 our si 



xxxi 



il least, in winch our . — 

equally gratified. The poet was. delighted wnn 
lis companv. and acquitted himself to admira- 
tion. The lion that had rayed so violently in 
the morning was now as mild and gentle as a . . 
lamb. Nfext day we returned to Dumfries, and ] t intent, in 
so ends our peregrination. 1 told you, that in ' - 
the midst of the Storm, on the wilds of lvenmore, 
Bums was wrapt in meditation. What do you 
think he was about '{ lie was charging the 
Biglish army, along with Bruce, at Bantiock- 
bnrn. He was engaged in the same manner on 
our ride home from St. Mary's Isle, and I did not 
disturb him. Nest day he produced me the 
following address of Bruce to his troops, and 
gave me a copy for Dalzell. 

- 1 - ' Scots wha ha'e wi' Wallace bled,' " &c. 
Burns had entertained hopes of promotion in 
the Excise; but circumstances occurred which 
retarded their fulfilment, and which, in his own 
mind, destroyed all expectation of their ever 
being fulfilled. The extraordinary events which 
phered in the Revolution of France interested 
the feelings, and excited the hopes, of men in 
every corner of Europe. Prejudice and tyranny 
seemed about to disappear from among men, 
and the day-star of reason to rise upon a be- 
nighted world. In the dawn of this beautiful 
morning, the genius of French freedom appeared 
on our southern horizon with the countenance 
of an angel, but speedily assumed the features 
of a demon, and speedily vanished in a shower of 
blood. 



conduct, and represented him as actually dis- 
, missed from his office : and this report induced 
i a gentleman of much respectability to propose a 
i subscription in his favour. The offer was refused 
— poet in a letter of great elevation of sen- 
, in which he gives an account of the 
vhole of this transaction, and defends himself 
from imputation of disloyal sentiments on the 
one hand, and on the other, from the charge of 
having made submissions for the sake of his of- 
fice, unworthy of his character. 
■•The partiality of my countrymen," he observes, 
•' has brought me forward as a man of genius, 
and has given me a character to support. In the 
poet I have avowed manly and independent sen- 
timents, which 1 hope have been found in the 
man. Reasons of no less weight than the sup- 
port of a wife and children have pointed out my 
present occupation as the only eligible line of 
life within my reach. Still my honest fame is 
my dearest concern, and a thousand times have 
I trembled at the idea of the degrading epithets 
that malice or misrepresentation may affix to m v 
name. Often in blasting anticipation have T 
listened to some future hackney scribbler, with 
the heavy malice of savage stupidity, exult high' 
asserting that Burns, notwithstanding the fan- 
faronade of independence to be found in Ids 
works, and atter having been held up to public 
view, and to public estimation, as a man of some 
genius, yet. quite destitute of resources within 
himself to support his borrowed dignity, dwin- 
dled into a paltry exciseman, and slunk out the 
I rest of his insignificant existence in the meanest 



Though previously a Jacobite and a Cavalier, of pursuits, and among the very lowest of man- 



Burns had shared in the original hopes enter- 
tained of this astonishing revolution, by ardent 
and benevolent minds. The novelty and the 
hazard of the attempt meditated by the First, 
or Constituent Assembly, served rather, it is 
probable, to recommend it to his daring temper; 
and the unfettered scope proposed to be given to 
every kind of talents was doubtless gratifying 
to the feelings of conscious hut indignant genius. 
Burns foresaw not the mighty ruin that was to 
be the immediate consequence of an enterprise, 
which, on its commencement, promised so much 
happiness to the human race. And even after 
the career of guilt and of blood commenced, he 
could not immediately, it may be presumed, 
withdraw his partial gaze from a people who 
had so lately breathed the sentiments of univer- 
sal peace and benignity, or obliterate in his 
Dosom the pictures of hope and of happiness to 
which those sentiments had given birth. Under 
these impressions, he did not always conduct 
himself with the circumspection and prudence 
which his dependent situation seemed to de- 
mand. He engaged indeed in no popular assn- 
fiation-, so common at the time of which we 
speak ; but in company he did not conceal his 
minions of public measures, or of the reforms 
required in the practice of our Government ; 
and sometimes, in his social and unguarded mo- 
ments, he uttered them with a wild and 1111- 
lastifiable vehemence. Information of this was 
jiven to the Board of Excise, with the exagge- 
•ation so general in such cases. A superior 
jfficer in that department was authorised to in- 
mire into his conduct. Burns defended him- 
self in a letter addressed to one of the board, 
written with great independence of spirit, and 
fgfh more than his accustomed eloquence. The 
officer appointed to inquire into his conduct gave 
i favourable report. " His firm, steady friend, 
Mr. Graham of Fintra, interposed his influence 
uid good offices in his behalf; and the imprn- 
ient ganger was suffered to retain his situation. 
)iit, at the same time, given to understand that 
lis promotion was deferred, and must depend 
>n his future behaviour. 
This circumstance made a deep impression on 
he mind of Burns. Fame exaggerated his mis- 



kind. 

'• In your illustrious hands, sir, permit me to 
lodge my strong disavowal and defiance of such 
slanderous falsehoods. Burns was a poor man 
from his birth, and an exciseman by necessity: 
but— I inll say it !— the sterling of his honest 
worth poverty could not debase, and his inde- 
pendent British spirit oppression might bend, 
but could not subdue." 

It was one of the last acts of his life to copy 
this letter into his book of manuscripts, accom- 
panied bv some additional remarks on the same 
subject. * It is not surprising that, at a season of 
universal alarm for the safety of the constitu- 
tion, the indiscreet expressions of a man so power- 
ful as Burns should have attracted notice. The 
times certainly required extraordinary vigilance 
in those entrusted with the administration of the 
government, and to ensure the safety of the con- 
stitution was doubtless their first duty. Yet 
generous minds will lament that their measures 
of precaution should have robbed the imagina- 
tion of our poet of the last prop on which his 
hopes of independence rested, and by embitter- 
ing his peace, have aggravated those excesses 
which were soon to conduct him to an untimely 
grave. 

Though the vehemence of Burns's temper, in- 
creased as it often was by stimulating drinks, 
might lead him into many improper and un- 
guarded expressions, there seems no reason to 
doubt of his attachment to our mixed form of 
government. In his common-place book, where 
he could have no temptation to disguise, arc the 
following sentiments :—" Whatever might be my 
sentiments of republics, ancient or modern, as 
to Britain. I ever abjured the idea. A constitu- 
tion which, in its original principles, experience 
has proved to be every way fitted for our happi- 
ness, it would be insanity to abandon for an 
untried visionary theory." In conformity to 
these sentiments, when the pressing nature of 
public affairs called, in 179.5, for a general arming 
of the people. Burns appeared in the ranks of 
the Dumfries volunteers, and employed his 
poetical talents in stimulating their patriotism ; 
and at this season of the alarm, he brought for- 
ward the hymn, worthy of the Grecian muse, 



LIFE OF ItOLiEit'I BUBXS. 



\xxii 

when Greece was most conspicuous fur genius 

and valour, commencing, 

•• Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and 
ye skies." 

Though by nature of an athletic form, Burns 
had in his constitution the peculiarities and the 
delicacies that belong to the temperament of 
genius. He -was liable, from a very early period, 
to that interruption in the process of digestion, 
which arises from deep and anxious thought, and 
which is sometimes the effect, and sometimes the 
cause, of depression of spirits. Connected with 
this disorder of the stomach, there was a dispo- 
sition to head-ache, affecting more espceially 
the temples and eye-balls, and frequently ac- 
companied by violent and irregular movements 
of the heart. Endowed bv nature with great 
sensibility of nerves, Burns was, in his corpo- 
real, as well as in his mental, system, liable to 
inordinate impressions; to fever of body as well 
as of mind. This predisposition to disease, which 
strict temperance in diet, regular exercise, and 
sound sleep, might have subdued, habits of a 
different nature strengthened and inflamed. 
Perpetually stimulated bv alcoholin one or other 
of its various forms, the inordinate actions of 
the circulating system became at length habi- 
tual; the process of nutrition was unable to sup- 
ply the waste, and the powers of life began to 
fail. Upwards of a year before his death, there 
was an evident decline in our poet's personal 
appearance ; and though his appetite continued 
unimpaired, he was himself sensible that his 
constitution was sinking. In his moments of 
thought, he reflected with the deepest regret on 
this fatal progress, clearly foreseeing the goal 
towards which he was hastening, without the 
strength of mind necessary to stop, or even to 
slacken, his course. His temper now became more 
irritable and gloomy; he fled from himself into 
society, often of the lowest kind. And in such 
company, that part of the convivial scene, in 
which wine increases sensibility ana excites 
benevolence, was hurried over, to reach the suc- 
feedin fr part, over which uncontrolled passion 
generally presided. He who suffers the pollu- 
tion of inebriation, how shall he escape other 
pollution V But let us refrain from the mention 
of errors over which delicacy and humanity 
draw the veil. „ 

In the midst of all his wanderings, Burns met 
nothing in his domestic circle but gentleness and 
forgiveness, except in the gnawings of his own 
remorse. He acknowledged his transgressions 
to the wife of his bosom, promised amendment, 
and again and again received pardon for his 
offences. But as the strength of his body 
decayed, his resolution became feebler, and 
habit acquired predominating strength. 

From October, 1792, to the January following, 
an accidental complaint confined him to the 
house. A few davs after he began to go abroad, 
he dined at a tavern, and returned home about 
three o'clock in a very cold morning, benumbed 
and intoxicated. This was followed by an attack 
of rheumatism, which confined him about a 
week. His appetite now began to fail: his hand 
shook, and his voice faltered on any exertion or 
emotion. His pulse became weaker and more 
rapid, and pain in the larger joints, and m the 
hands and feet, deprived him of the enjoyment 
of refreshing sleep. Too much dejected in his 
spirits and too well aware of his real situation 
to entertain hopes of recovery, he was ever 
musing on the approaching desolation of his 
family, and his spirits sunk into a uniform 
gloom. 
It was hoped by some of 1 



ollld 



tlii-. 



lths o 



Bi 



they 



summer wind blew upon him, but produced no 
refreshment. About the latter end of June he 
was advised to go into the country, and. impa- 
tient of medical advice, as well as of every 
species of control, he determined for himself to 
try the effects of bathing in the sea. Fortius 
purpose he took up his residence at Brow, in 
Annandale, about ten miles east of Dumfries, on 
the shores of the .Kolwav-Frith. 

It happened that at that time a lady, with 
whom he had been connected in friendship by 
the sympathies of kindred genius, was residing 
in the immediate neighbourhood. Being in- 
formed of his arrival, she invited him to dinner, 
and sent her carriage for him to the cottage 
where he lodged, as he was unable to walk.—" I 
was struck.'" says this lady (in a confidential 
letter to a friend written soon after), "with his 
appearance on entering the room. The stamp 
of death was impressed on his features. He 
seemed already touching the brink of eternity. 
His salutation 'was " V-,' ell. madam, have you any 
commands for the other world?' I replied, that 
it seemed a doubtful ease which of us should be 
there soonest, and that I hoped that he would 
yet live to write my epitaph. (I was then in a 
poor state of health.) He looked in my face 
with an air of great kindness, and expressed his 
concern at seeing me look so ill, with his accus- 
tomed sensibility. At table he ate little or 
nothing, and he complained of having entirely 
lost the tone of his stomach. We had a long and 
serious conversation about his present situation 
and the approaching termination of all his 
earth]-- pro-pects. He spoke of his death without 
any of the ostentation of philosophy, but with 
firmness as well as feeling— as an event likely to 
happen very soon, and which gave him concern 
chiefly from leaving his four children so young 
and unprotected, and his wife in so interesting 
a situation— in hourly expectation of lying in of a 
fifth. He mentioned, with seeming pride and, 
satisfaction, the promising genius of his eldest 
son, and the flattering marks of approbation he 
had received from his teachers, and dwelt par- 
ticularly on his hopes of that boy's future con- 
duet and merit. His anxiety for his family 
seemed to hang heavy upon him. and the more 
perhaps from the reflection that he had not done 
them all the justice he was so well qualified to 
do. Passing from this subject, lie showed great 
concern about the care of his literary fame, and 
particularly the publication of his posthumous 
works. He said he was well aware that his 
death would occasion some noise, and that every 
scrap of his writing would be revived against 
him to the injury of his future reputation: that 
letters and verses written with unguarded and 
improper freedom, and which he earnestly 
wished to have buried in oblivion, would be 
handed about by idle vanity or malevolence. 
when no dread of his resentment would restrain 
them, or prevent the censures of shrill-tongued 
malice, or the insidious sarcasms of envy, fi 
pouring forth all their venom to blast his fame. 
"He lamented that he had written many epi- 
! grams on persons against whom he entertained 
no enmitv. and whose characters he should be 
sorry to wound: and many indifferent poetical 
pieces, which he feared would now, with all then 
imperfections on their head, be thrust upon the 
world. On this account he deeply regretted 
having deterred to put his papers into a state of 
arrangement, as he was now quite incapable ol 
the exertion."— The lady goes on to mention 
many other topics of a private nature on whicl 
bespoke— "The conversation," she adds, " was 
kept up with great evenness and animation or 
his side. 1 had seldom seen his mind greater oi 
more collected. There was frequently a con : 
•ddeiable degree, of vivacity in his sallies, am 
thev would probably have had a greater share 
had not the concern and dejection I could not 




THE BANKS OF THE DOON T . 






LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS 



... guise damped the spirit of pleasantry he 
seemed not unwilling to indulge. 

11 "We parted about sunset on the evening of 
that day (the 5th of July, 1796); the next day I 
saw him again, and we parted to meet no 
. more!" 

At first, Burns imagined bathing in the sea 
had been of benefit to him; the pains in his 
limbs were relieved; but this was immediately 
followed by a new attack of fever. When 
brought back to his own house in Dumfries, on 
the IStJi of July, he was no longer able to stand 
upright. At this time a tremor pervaded his 
frame; his tongue was parched, and his mind 
sunk into delirium, when not roused by conver- 
sation. On the second and third day the fever 
increased, and his strength diminished. On the 
fourth, the sufferings of this great, but ill-fated 
genius were terminated, and a life was closed 
in which virtue and passion had been at per- 
petual variance.* 

The death of Burns made a strong and general 
impression on all who had interested themselves 
in his character, and especially on the inhabi- 
tants of the town and country in which he had 
spent the latter years of his life. Flagrant as 
his follies and errors had been, they had not de- J 
prived him of the respect and regardentertained I 
for the extraordinary powers of his senilis, and j 
the generous qualities of his heart. The Gentle- 
men-Volunteers of Dumfries determined to bury | 
their illustrious associate with military honours, 
and every preparation was made to render this 
last service solemn and impressive. The Fen- 
cible Infantry of Angus-shire, and the regiment 
of cavalry of the Cinque Ports, at that time 
quartered in Dumfries, offered their assistance 
on this occasion ; the principal inhabitants of the 
town and neighbourhood determined to walk in 
the funeral procession ; and a vast concourse of 
persons assembled, some of them from a con- 
siderable distance, to witness tho obsequies of 
the Scottish Bard. On the evening of the 25th 
of July, the remains of Burns were removed 
from his house to the Town-Hall, and the funeral 
took place on the succeeding day. A party of 
the volunteers, selected to perform the military 
duty in the churchyard, stationed themselves 
in the front of the procession, with their arms 
reversed; the main body of the corps sur- 
rounded and supported the coffin, on which were 
placed the hat and sword of their friend and 
fellow-soldier; the numerous body of attendants 
ranged themselves in the rear; while the Fen- 
cible regiments of infantry and cavalry lined the 
streets from the Town-Hall to the burial-ground 
in the Southern churchyard, a distance of more 
than half a mile. The whole procession moved 
forward to that sublime and affecting strain of 
music, the "Dead March in Saul:" and three 
volleys tired over his grave marked the return of 
Burns to his parent earth! The spectacle was 
hi a high degree grand and solemn, and accorded 
with the general sentiments of sympathy and 
sorrow which the occasion had called forth. 

It was an affecting circumstance, that, on the 
morning of the day of her husband's funeral, 
Mrs. Bums was undergoing the pains of labour, 
and that during the solemn service we have just 
been describing, the posthumous son of our poet 
was born. This infant boy, who received the 
name of Maxwell, was not destined to a long 
life. He has already become an inhabitant of 
the same grave with his celebrated father. The 
four other children of our poet, all sons (the 
eldest at that time about ten years of age), yet 
survive, and give every promise of prudence 
and virtue that can be expected from their tcn- 



* The particulars respecting the illness and 
death of Burns were obligingly furnished by Dr. 
Maxwell, the phvsician who attended him. 



xxxiii 

tier years. They remain under the care of their 
affectionate mother in Dumfries, and are enjoy- 
ing the means of education which the excellent 
schools of that town afford; the teachers of 
which, in their conduct to the children of Burns, 
do themselves great honour. On this occasion, 
the name of Mr. Whyte deserves to be par- 
ticularly mentioned, himself a poet as well as a 
man of science. 

Burns died in great poverty : but the indepen- 
dence of his spirit, and the exemplary prudence 
of his wife, had preserved him from debt. He 
had received from his poems a clear profit of 
about nine hundred pounds. Of this sum, the 
part expended on his library (which was far 
from extensive) and in the humble furniture of 
his house, remained; and obligations were found 
for two hundred pounds advanced by him to the 
assistance of those whom he was united by the 
ties of blood, and still more by those of esteem 
and affection. When it is considered, that his 
expenses in Edinburgh, and on his various 
journeys, could not be inconsiderable; that his 
agricultural undertaking was unsuccessful; that 
his income from the Excise was for some time 
as low as fifty, and never rose to above seventy, 
pounds a-y>;ar: that his family was large, and 
his spirit liberal;— no one will be surprised that 
his circumstances were so poor, or that, as his 
health decayed, his proud and feeling heart sunk 
under the secret consciousness of indigence, and 
the apprehension of absolute want. Yet poverty 
never bent the spirit of Burns to any pecuniary 
meanness. Neither chicanery nor sordidness 
ever appeared in his conduct. He carried his 
disregard of money to a blamable excess. Even 
in the midst of distress he bore himself loftily to 
the world, and received with a jealous reluct- 
ance every offer of friendly assistance. His 
printed Poems had procured him great celebrity, 
and a just and fair recompense for the latter 
offsprings of His pen might have produced him 
considerable emolument. In the year 1765, the 
Editor of a London newspaper, high in its cha- 
racter for literature, and independence of senti- 
ment, made a proposal to him that he should 
furnish them, once a-week, with an article for 
their poetical department, and receive from them 
a recompense of fifty-two guineas per annum; 
an offer which the pride of .senilis disdained to 
accept. Yet he had for several years furnished, 
and was at that time furnishing, the Museum of 
Johnson with his beautiful lyrics, without fee 
or reward, and was obstinately refusing all re- 
compense for his assistance to the greater work 
of Mr. Thomson, which the justice and gene- 
rosity of that gentleman was pressing upon him. 

The sense of his poverty, and of the approach- 
ing distress of his infant family, pressed heavily 
on Burns as he lay on the bed of death. Yet he 
alluded to his indigence, at times, with some- 
thing approachingto his wonted gaiety.— - What 
business," said he to Dr. Maxwell, who attended 
him with the utmost zeal, "has a physician to 
waste his time on me 't I am a poor pigeon, not 
worth plucking. Alas! I have not feathers 
enough to carry me to my grave." And when 
his reason was lost in delirium, his ideas ran in 
the same melancholv train. The horrors of a 
gaol were still present to his troubled imagi- 
nation, and produced the most affecting excla- 

As for some months previous to his death he 
had been incapable of the duties of his office, 
Burns had imagined that his salary was reduced 
one half, as is usual in such cases. The Board, 
however, to their honour, continued his full 
emoluments; and Mr. Graham of Fintra. hear- 
ing of his illness, though unacquainted with its 
dangerous nature, made an offer of his assis- 
tance towards procuring him the means of pre- 
serving his health.— Whatever might be the 
faults of Burns, ingratitude was not of the ntim- 



&XXW LIFE OF ROBERT BURNS. 

ber.— Amongst his manuscripts, various proofs 
Arc found of the sense lie entertained of Mr. 

< Graham's friendship, which delicacy towards 
that gentleman has induced us to suppress; and 
on the last occasion there is no doubt that his 
heart overflowed towards him, though he had 
no longer the power of expressing his feelings.* 

On the death of Burns, the inhabitants of 
Dumfries and its neighbourhood opened a sub- 
cription for the support of his wife and family; 
and Mr. Miller, Mr. M'Murdo, Dr. Maxwell, and 
Mr. Syme, gentlemen of the first respectability, 
became trustees for the application of the money 
to its proper objects. The subscription was ex- 
tended to other parts of Scotland, and of Eng- 
land also, particularly London and Liverpool. 
By this means a sum was raised amounting to 
seven hundred pounds ; and thus the widow and 
children were rescued from immediate distress, 
and the most melancholy of the forebodings of 
Burns happily disappointed. It is true, this 
sum, though equal to their present support, is 
insufficient to secure them from future penury. 
Their hope in regard to futurity depends on the 
favourable reception of those volumes from the 
public at large, in the promoting of which the 
candour and humanity of the reader may induce 
him to lend his assistance. 

Burns, as lias already been mentioned, was 
nearly five feet ten inches in height, and of a 
form that indicated agility as well as stron-rli. 
His well-raised forehead, shaded with black 
curling hair, indicated extensive capacity. His 
eyes were large, dark, full of ardour and intelli- 
gence. His face was well formed ; and his coun- 
tenance uncommonly interesting and expressive. 
His mode of dressing, which was often slovenly, 
and a certain fulness and bend in his shoulders, 
characteristic of his original profession, dis- 
guised in some degree the natural symmetry 
and elegance of his form. The external appear- 
ance of Burns was most strikingly indicative of 
the character of his mind. On a first view, his 
physiognomy had a certain air of coarseness, 
mingled, however, with an expression of deep 
penetration, and of calm thonghtfulness ap- 
proaching to melancholy. There appeared in 
his first manner and address, perfect ease and 
self-possession, but a stern and almost super- 
cilious elevation, not, indeed, incompatible with 
openness and affability, which, however, be- 
spoke a mind conscious of superior talents.— 
Strangers that supposed themselves approach- 
ing an Ayrshire peasant, wdio could make 
rhymes, and to whom their notice was an 
honour, found themselves speedily overawed by 
the presence of a man who bore himself with 
dignity, and who possessed a singular power of 
correcting forwardness and of repelling intru- 
sion. But though jealous of the respect due to 
himself, Bums never enforced it where he saw 
it was willingly paid; and, though inaccessible 
to the approaches of pride, lie was open to every 
advance of kindness and of benevolence. His 
dark and haughty countenance easily relaxed 
into a look of good-will, of pity, or of tenderness; 
and, as the various emotions succeeded each 
other in his mind, assumed with equal ease the 
expression of the broadest humour, of the most 
extravagant mirth, of the deepest melancholy. 
or of the most sublime emotion. The tones of 
his voice huppilv corresponded with the expres- 
sion of his features and with the feelings of 
his mind. When to (he-e endowments are added 
a rapid and distinct apprehension, a most 
powerful understanding, and a happy command 
of language— of strength as well as brilliancy of 



* The letter of Mr. Crahani, alluded to above, 
is dated on the 13th of July, and probably arrived 
on the 15th. Burns became delirious on the 17th, 
or 18th. and died Oil the 21st, 



expression,— we shall be able to account for the 
extraordinary attractions of his conversation— 
for the sorcery which in his social parties he 
seemed to exert on all around him. In the com- 
pany of women, this sorcery was more especial! v 
apparent. Their presence charmed the fiend of 
melancholy ill his bosom, and awoke his happiest 
feelings ; it excited the powers of his fancy as 
well as the tenderness of his heart ; and, by re- 
straining the vehemence and exuberance of his 
language, at times gave to his manners the im- 
pression of taste, and even of elegance, which 
in the company of men they seldom possessed. 
This influence was doubtless reciprocal. A 
Scottish lady, accustomed to the best society, 
declared with characteristic naivete, that no 
man's conversation ever carried her so com- 
pletely off her feet as that of Burns; and an Eng- 
lish lady, familiarly acquainted with several of 
the most distinguished characters of the present 
times, assured the editor, that in the happiest of 
his social hours there was a charm about Burns 
which she had never seen equalled. The charm 
arose not more from the power than the versa- 
tility of his genius. No languor could be felt in 
the society of a man who passed at pleasure 
from grave to gay. from the ludicrous to the 
pathetic, from the simple to the sublime: who 
wielded all his faculties with equal strength and 
ease, and never failed to impress the offspring of 
his fancy with the stamp of his understanding. 

This, indeed, is to represent Burns in his hap- 
piest phasis. In large and mixed parties, he. 
was often silent and dark, sometimes fierce and 
overbearing; he was jealous of the proud man's 
scorn, jealous to an extreme of the insolence of 
wealth, and prone to avenge, even on its inno- 
cent possessor, the partiality of fortune. By ! 
nature, kind, brave, sincere, and in a singular 
degree compassionate, he was on the other hand 
proud, irascible, and vindictive. His virtues 
and failings had their origin in the extraor- 
dinary sensibility of his mind, and equally par- 
took in the chills and glows of sentiment. His 
friendships were liable to interruption from . 
lousy or disgust, and his enmities died away 
under the influence of pity or self-accusation. 
His understanding was equal to the other 
powers of his mind, and his deliberate opinions 
were singularly candid and just ; but, like other 
men of great and irregular genius, the opinions 
which he delivered in conversation were often 
the offspring of temporary feelings, and widely 
different from the calm decisions of his judg- 
ment. This was not merely true respecting the 
characters of others, but in regard to some of 
the most important points of human specula- 
tion. 

On no subject did he give a more striking 
proof of the strength of his understanding, than 



in the correct estimate he formed of himself. 
He knew his own failings; he predicted theii 
consequence ; the melancholy foreboding wa> 
never long absent from his mind; yet his pas- 
sions carried him down the stream of error, and 
swept him over the precipice he saw directly 
his course. The fatal defect in his character" bu- 
rn the comparative weakness of his volition, 
that superior faculty of the mind which, govern- 
ing the conduct according to the dictates of the 
understanding, alone entitles it to be denomi- 
nated rational; which is the parent of fortitude, 
patience, and self-denial; which, by regulating 
and combining human exertions, may be said to 

man, 'in literature, in science, or on the face of 
nature.— The occupations of a poet are not cal- 
culated to strengthen the governing (lowers of 
the mind, or to weaken that sensibility which 
requires perpetual control, since it gives birth 
to the vehemence, of passion, as well as to the 
higher powers of imagination. Unfortunately, 
the favourite occupations of genius are calcu- 






LIFE OF KCDLKT i..i 111 ■ . 



xxxv 



iated to increase all its p< ■> -miamics. : to nourish 
that lofty pride which disdains the littleness of 
prudence and the restrictions of order ; and. by 
indulgence, to increase that sensibility which, 
in the present form of our existence, is scarcely 
compatible with peace or happiness, even when 
accompanied with the choicest gifts of fortune. 

It is observed by one who was a friend and 
associate of Burns, and who has contenipk-.ted 
and explained the system of animated nature, 
that no sentient being, with mental powers 
•-reater than those of men. could possibly live 
and be happv in this world.— " If such a being 
reallv existed'.'' continued he, " his misery would 
be extreme. With senses more delicate and re- 
' lined ; with perceptions more acute and pene- 
trating; with a taste so exquisite that the ob- 
jects around him would by no means gratify it ; 
obliged to feed on nourishment too gross for his 
frame; he must be born only to be miserable: 
and the continuation of his existence would be 
utterly impossible. Even in our present con- 
dition, the sameness and the insipidity of ob- 
jects and pursuits, the futility of pleasure, and 
the infinite sources of excruciating pain, are 
supported with great difficulty by cultivated 
and refined minds. Increase our sensibilities, 
continue the same objects and situation, and no 
man could bear to live." 

Thus it appears that our powers of sensation, 
as well as our other powers, are adapted to the 
scene of our existence : that they are limited in 
mercy, as well as in wisdom. 

The speculations of Mr. Smellie are not to be 
considered as the dreams of a, theorist : tiny 
were probably founded on sad experience. The 
being he supposes, "with senses more delicate 
and refined, with perceptions more acute and 
penetrating,*' is to be found in real life. lie is ; 
the temperament of genius, and perhaps a poet. 
Is there, then, no remedy for this inordinate 
sensibility? Are there no means by which the ' 
happiness of one so constituted by nature may 
consulted? Perhaps it will be found, that re- 
gular and constant occupation, irksome though 
it may tirst be, is the true remedy. Occupation 
in which the powers of the understanding are 
exercised will diminish the force of external 
impressions, and keep the imagination under 
restraint. 

That the bent of every man's mind should be 
followed in his education and in his destination 
in life, is a maxim which lias been often re- 
peated, but which cannot be admitted without 
many restrictions. It may be generally true 
when applied to weak minds, which, being ca- 
pable of little, must be encouraged and strength- 
ened in the feeble impulses by which that little 
is produced. But where indulgent nature has 
bestowed her gifts with a liberal band, the very 
reverse of this maxim ought frequently to be the 
rule of conduct. In minds of a higher order, the 
object of instruction and of discipline is very 
often to restrain rather than to impel; to curb 
the impulses of imagination so that the passions 
also may be kept under control. Hence the ad- 
vantages, even in a moral point of view, of 
studies of a severe nature, which, while they in- 
form the understanding, employ the volition, 
that regulating power of the mind, which, like 
all our other faculties, is strengthened by exer- 
cise, and on the superiority of which "virtue, 
happiness, and honourable fame are wholly de- 
pendent. Hence, also, the advantage of regular 
and constant application, which aids the volun- 
tary power by the production of habits so neces- 
sary to the support of order and virtue, and so 
difficult to be formed in the temperament of 
genius. 

The man who is so endowed and so regulated 
may pursue his course with confidence in almost 
any of the various walks of life which choice or 
accident shall open to him ; and provided he ein- 



' ploys the talents he has cultivated, may hope for 
such imperfect happiness, and such limited suc- 
cess, as are reasonably expected from human 
exertions. 
The pre-eminence among men which procures 
i personal respect, and which terminates in last- 
ing reputation, is seldom or never obtained bv 
I the excellence of a single faculty of mind. Ex- 
| perience teaches us that it has been acquired by 
: those only who have possessed the comprehen- 
sion and the energy of general talents, and who 
have regulated their application, in the line 
which choice, or perhaps accident, mavhave de- 
termined, by the dictates of their 'judgment. 
, Imagination is supposed, and with justice, to be 
! the leading faculty of the poet. But what poet 
j has stood the test of time by the force of this 
'single faculty? "Who does not see that Homel- 
and Shakspere excelled the rest of their species 
in understanding as well as in imagination? — 
that they were pre-eminent in the highest species 
of knowledge— the knowledge of the nature and . 
character of man? On the other hand, the talent 
, of ratiocination is more especially requisite to 
the orator, even by the highest exercise in this 
-ingle talent, who does not perceive that Demos- 
thenes and Cicero were not more happy in their 
addresses to the reason, than in their a'ppeals to 
the passion- ? They knew that to excite, to 
agitate, and to delight, are among the most 
potent arts of persuasion; and they enforced 
their impression on the understanding by their 
command of all the sympathies of the 'heart. 
These observations might be extended toother 
walks of life. lie who has the faculties fitted to 
excel in poetry, has the faculties which, duly 
governed, and differently directed, might lead 
to pre-eminence in other, "and, as far as respects 
himself, perhaps in happier destinations. The 
talents necessary to the construction of an Iliad, 
under discipline and application, might have 
led armies to victory, or kingdoms to prosperity; 
might have wielded the thunder of eloquence, "or 
discovered and enlarged the sciences that con- 
stitute power, and improve the condition of our 
species. 

Such talents are, indeed rare among the pro- 
ductions of nature, and occasions of bringing 
them into full exertion are rarer still. But safe 
and salutary occupations may be found for men 
of genius in every direction, while the useful 
and ornamental arts remain to be cultivated, 
while the sciences remain to be extended, and 
the principles of science to be applied to the cor- 
rection and improvement of art. In the tem- 
perament of sensibility, which is in truth the 
temperament of general talents, the principal 
object of discipline and instruction is, as has 
already been mentioned, to strengthen the self- 
command: and this may be promoted by the 
direction of the studies, more effectually per- 
haps than has been generally understood. 

If these observations be founded in truth, they 
may lead to practical consequences of some im- 
portance. It has been too much the custom to 
consider the possession of poetical talents as ex- 
cluding the possibility of application to the 
severer branches of study, and in some degree 
incapacitating the possessor from attaining those 
habits, and from bestowing that attention, 
which are necessary to success in the details 
of business, and in the engagements of active 
life. It has been common for persons conscious 
of such talents to look with a sort of disdain on 
other kinds of intellectual excellence, and to 
consider themselves as in some degree absolved 
from those rules of prudence by which humbler 
minds are restricted. They are too much dis- 
posed to abandon themselves to their own sen- 
sations, and to suffer life to pass away without 
any regular exertion or settled purpose. 

But though men of genius are generally prone 
to indolence, with thein indolence and unha-o- 



xxx vi 



LIFE OF ROBEKT HLKNS. 



piness are in a more special way allied. The 
unbidden splendours -of imagination niav indeed 
at times irradiate the gloom which inactivity 
produces; but such visions, though bright, are 
transient, and serve to cast the realities of life 
into deeper shade. In bestowing greater talents, 
Nature seems very generally to have imposed 
<<n the possessor the necessity of exertion, if he 
would escape wretchedness Better for him 
than sloth, toils the most painful, or adventures 
the most hazardous. Happier to him than 
idleness were the condition of the peasant, 
earning with incessant labour his scanty food; 
or that of the sailor, though hanging on the 
yard-arm, and wrestling with the hurricane. 

These observations might be amply illustrated 
by the biography of men of genius of every 'de- 
nomination, and more especially by the biogra- 
phy of the poets. Of this last description of men, 
few seem to have enjoyed the usual portion of 
happiness that falls to the lot of humanity, those 
excepted who have cultivated poetry as'an ele- 
gant amusement in the hours of relaxation from 
other occupations, or the small number who 
have engaged with success in the greater or 
more arduous attempts of the muse, in which all 
the faculties of the mind have been fully and 
permanently employed. Even taste, virtue, and 
comparative independence do not seem capable 
of bestowing on men of genius peace and tran- 
quillity, without such occupation as may give re- 
gular and healthful exercise to the faculties of 
body and mind. The amiable Shenstone has 
left us the records of his imprudence, of his 
indolence, and of his unhappiness, amidst the 
shades of Leasowes ; and the virtues, the learn- 
in g. and the genius of Gray, equal to the loftiest 
attempt of the epic muse, failed to procure him 
in the academic bowers of Cambridge the tran- 
quillity and that respect which less fastidiousness 
of taste, and greater constancy and vigour of 
exertion, would have doubtless obtained. 

It is more necessary that men of genius ahould 
be aware of the importance of self-command 
and of exertion, because their indolence is 
peculiarly exposed, not merely to unhappiness, 
but to disease of mind, and to errors of conduct. 
which are generally fatal. This interesting sub- 
ject deserves a particular investigation ; but we 
must content ourselves with one or two cursory 
remarks. Relief is sometimes sought for the 
melancholy of indolence in practices which for 
a time soothe and gratify the sensation, but 
which in the end involve the sufferer in darker 
glooni. To command the external circumstances 
by which happiness is affected, it is not in 
human power; but there are various substances 
in nature which operate on the system of the 
nerves, so as to give a fictitious gaiety to the 
ideas of imagination, and to alter the effect of 
die external impressions which we receive. 
Opium is chiefly employed for this purpose by 
t lie disciples of Mahomet, and the inhabitants of 
Asia: but alcohol, the principle of intoxication 
in vinous and spiritous liquors, is preferred in 



Europe, and is univers; 
world. Under the va 
indolent sensibility is 
gloomy apprehensions 
which it is so often a 
temptation to have rec 
which the pain of these 
which the heart is ex 
and happiness a 



used in the Christian 
as wounds to which 
josed. and under the 
specting futurity to 
y. how strong is the 
rse to an antidote by 
unds is suspended, by 
crated, ideas of hope 
in the mind, and the 
clothed with new 



Elysium opens round, 
A pleasing frenzy buoys the lighten'd soul. 
And sanguine hopes dispel your fleeting can 
And what was difficult, and what was dire, 
Yields to your prowess, and superior stars: 
The happiest of you all that e'er were mad, 



Or are, or shall be, could this folly last. 

But soon your heaven is gone ; a* heavier : 
Shut o'er your head—— 

Morniii 

With tenfold rage. 

May be endured : so may the throbbing head : 
But such a dim delirium, such a dream 
Involves you! such a dastardly despair 
Linnans your soul, as maddning Pentheus felt, 
When baited round Cithseron's cruel sides. 
He saw two suns and double Thebes ascend. 

Armstrong's Art of Preserving Health, b. iv. 
1. 163. 

Such are the pleasures and the pains of in- 
toxication, as they occur in the temperament of 
sensibility, described by a genuine poet, with a 
degree of truth and energy which nothing but 
experience could have dictated. There are, in- 
deed, some individuals of this temperament on 
whom wine produces no cheering influence. On 
some, even in very moderate quantities, its 
effects are painfully irritating ; in large doses it 
excites dark and melancholy ideas; and in doses 
still larger, the fierceness of insanity itself. 
Such men are happily exempted from a tempta- 
tion to which experiences teaches us the finest 
dispositions often yield, and the influence of 
which, when strengthened by habit, it is a 
humiliating truth, that the most powerful minds 
have not been able to resist. 

It is the more necessary for men of genius to 
be on their guard against the habitual use of 
wine, because it is apt to steal on them in- 
sensibly: and because the temptation to excess 
usually presents itself to them in their social 
hours.' when they are alive only to warm and 
generous emotions, and when prudence and 
moderation are often contemned as selfishness 
and timidity. 

It is more necessary for them to guard against 
excess in the use of wine, because on them its 
effects are physically and morally in an especial 
manner injurious. In proportion to its stimula- 
ting influence on the system (on which the plea- 
surable sensations depend) is the debility that 
ensues; a debility that destroys digestion, and 
terminates in habitual fever, dropsy, jaundice, 
paralysis, or insanity. As the strength of the 
body decays, the volition fails ; in proportion as 
the sensations are soothed and gratified, the 
sensibility increases; and morbid sensibility is 
the parent of indolence, because, while it impairs 
the regulating power of the mind, it exaggerates 
all the obstacles to exertion. Activity, per- 
severance, and self-command, become more run! 
more difficult, and the great purposes, of utility, 
patriotism, or of honourable ambition, which 
had occupied the imagination, die away in fruit- 
less resolutions, or in feeble efforts. 

To apply these observations to the subject of 
our memoirs would be a useless as well as a 
painful task. It is, indeed, a dutv we owe to 
the living, not to allow our admiration of great 
genius, or even our pitv for its unhappy destiny, 
to conceal or disguise its errors. But there are 
sentiments of respect, and even of tenderness, 
with which this duty should be performed; 
there is an awful sanctity which invests the 
mansions of the dead: "and let those who 
moralize over the graves of their contemporaries, 
reflect with humility on their own errors, nor 
forget how soon they may themselves require 
the candour and the sympathy they are culled 
upon to bestow, 



ON THE DEATH OF BURNS 
ON THE DEATH OF BURNS. 



BY MR. ROSCOE. 

A great number of poems have been written 
on the death of Burns, some of them of consider- 
able poetical merit To have subjoined all of 
them to the present edition, would have been 
to haA-e enlarged it to another volume at least; 
and to have made a selection, would have been 
a task of considerable delicacy. 

The editor, therefore, presents one poem only 
on this melancholy subject: a poem which has 
not before appeared in print. It is from the pen 
of one who has sympathized deeply in the fate 
of Burns, and will not be found unworthy of its 
author— the Biographer of " Lorenzo de Medici."' 
Of a person so well known, it is wholly unneces- 
sary for the editor to speak ; and, if it were 
necessary, it would not be easy for him to find 
language" that would adequately express his re- 
spect and his affection. 

Rear high thy bleak majestic hills, 

Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread, 
And, Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 

And wave thy heaths with blossoms red. 
But ah! what poet now shall tread 

Thy airy heights, thy woodland reign, 
Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead, 
Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead, 

That ever brcath'd the soothing strain ! 

As green thy towering pines may grow, 

As clear thy streams may speed along, 
As bright thy summer suns may glow. 

As gaily charm thy feathery throng; 
But now, unheeded is the song, 

And dull and lifeless all around, 
For his wild harp lies all unstrung, 

And cold the hand that waked its sound. 

What tho' thv vigorous offspring rise 

In arts, in arms, thv sons excel; 
Tho be ,utv in thv daughters' eves. 

And health in every feature dwell; 
Yet who shall now their praises tell. 

In strains impassion'd, fond and free. 
Since he no more the song shall swell 

To love, and liberty, and thee. 

With step-dame eye and frown severe 

His hapless youth why didst thou view? 
For all thy joys to him were dear. 

And all his Vows to thee where due ; 
Nor greater bliss his bosom knew. 

In opening youth's delightful prime. 
Than when thy favouring ear he drew 

To listen to his chanted rhyme. 

Thy lonely wastes and frowning skies 

To him where all w.th rapture fraught ; 
lie heard with joy the tempest rise 

That waked him to suMimer thought ; 
And oft thy winding dells he sought. 

Where wild tlow'rs pour'd their rathe per- 
fume, 
And with sincere devotion brought 

To thee the summer's earliest bloom. 

But ah! no fond maternal smile 

His unprotected youth enjoy'd. 
His limbs inur'd to earlv toil. ' 

His days with early hardships tried: 
And more to mark the gloomv void, 

And bid him feel his miscrv, 
Before his infant eves would glide 

Day dreams of immortalitv. 



Yet. not by cold neglect depressed, 

With sinewv arm he turn'd the soil. 
Sunk with the evening sun to rest. 

And met at morn his earliest smile. 
Waked by his rustic pipe, meanwhile 

The powers of fancy came along. 
And sooth'd his lengthend hours of toil, 

With native wit and sprightly song. 
—Ah ! days of bliss, too swiftly fled, 

When vigorous health from labour springs, 
And bland contentment smooths the bed, 

And sleep his ready opiate brings ; 
And hovering round on airy wings 

Float the light forms of young desire, 
That of unutterable things 

The soft and shadowy hope inspire. 
Now spells of mightier power prepare, 

Bid brighter phantoms round him dance- 
Let Flattery spread her viewless snare, 

And Fame attract his vagrant glance; 
Let sprightly Pleasure too advance, 

Unveil'd her eyes, unclasp'd her zone, 
Till, lost in love's delirious trance, 

He scorns the joys his youth has known. 
Let Friendship pour her brightest blaze, 

Expanding all the bloom of soul; 
And Mirth concentre all her rays. 

And point them from the sparkling bowl; 
And let the careless moments roll 

In social pleasure unconfined, 
And confidence that spurns control 

Unlock the inmost springs of mind : 

And lead his steps those bowers among, 

Where elegance with splendour vies, 
Or Science bids her favour" d throng, 

To more refined sensations rise: 
Beyond the peasant's humbler joys. 

And freed from each laborious strife 
There let him learn the bliss to prize 

That waits the sons of polish'd life. 

Then whilst his throbbing veins beat high 

With every impulse of delight, 
Dash from liis lips the cup of joy, 

And shroud the scene in shades of night ; 
And let Despair, with wizard light, 

Disclose the yawning gulf below, 
And pour incessant on his sight 

Her spectred ills and shapes of woe : 
And show beneath a cheerless sited. 

With sorrowing heart and streaming eves, 
In silent grief where droops her head, 

The partner of his early jovs ; 
And let'his infants* tender cries 

His fond parental succour claim, 
And bid him hear in agonies 

A husband's and a father's name. 

'Tis done, the powerful charm succeeds; 

Bis high reluctant spirit bends ; 
In bitterness of soul he bleeds. 

Nor longer with hi> fate contends. 
An idiot laugh the welkin rends 

As genius thus degraded lies ; 
Till pitying Heaven the veil extends 

That shrouds the Poet's ardent eyes. 

—Rear high thy bleak majestic hills, 

Thy sheltered valleys proudly spread, 
And Scotia, pour thy thousand rills, 

And wave thv heath- with blossoms red ; 
But never more shall poet trend 

Thy airy height, thy woodland reign, 
Since he, the sweetest bard, is dead. 

That. ever breath' d the soothing strain. 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



THE TWA DOGS. 



'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle, 
That bears the name o' Auld King CoiU 
Upon ii bonnie dav in June, 
When wearing through the afternoon. 
T\v;i dogs, that were na timing at hanie, 
Forgathcr'd ance upon a time, 

The first I'll name, they ca'd him Cassar, 
"Was keepit for his honor's pleasure ; 
His hair, his size, his mouth, his lngs. 
.Show'd he was nane o' Scotland's dogs, 
But whalpit some place far abroad. 
Where sailors gang to fish for cod. 

His locked, lettcr'd. braw brass collar. 
Shew'd him the gentleman and scholar; 
But though he was o' high degree, 
The licnt a pride, na pride had he; 
But wad hae spent an hour caressin. 
E'en wi' a tinkler-gipsy's messin' : 
At kirk or market, mill or smiddie, 
Xae tawted tyke, though e'er sae duddie. 
But he wad stan't as glad to see him, 
And stroan't on stanes an' hillocks wi' him. 

The tither was a ploughman's collie, 
A rhyming, ranting, roving billie, 
Whi for his friend and comrade, had him. 
And in his freaks had Luath ca'd him, 
After some dog in Highland sang.- 
. Was made lang svne— Lord knows how lang. 

He was a gash an" faithfu' tyke, 
As ever lap a sheugh or dyke ; 
His honest, sonsie, baws'ht face. 
Aye gat him friends in ilka place. 
His breast was white, his towzie back 
Weel clad wi' coat o' glossy black ; 
His gaweie tail, wi' upward curl. 
Hung o'er his hurdies wi' a swirl. 

Xae doubt but they were fain o' ithcr. 
An' unco pack and thick thegither; 
Wi' social nose whyles shuff'd and showkit ; 
Whyles mice and moudieworts they howkit : 
Whyles scour' d awa in lang excursion. 
And worried ither in diversion: 
L'ntil wi' daffin weary grown, 
Upon a knowe they sat them down, 
And there began a lang digression, 
About the lords o' the creation. 

CESAR. 

I've aften wonder'd honest Luath. 
What sort o' life poor dogs like you have; 
An' when the gentry's life I saw, 
What way poor bodies liv'd ava. 

Our Laird gets in his racked rents. 
His coals, his kain. and a' his stents ; 
He rises when he likes himsel' ; 
His flunkies answer at the bell: 
He ea's his coach, he ca's his horse; 
He draws a bonnie silken purse, 
As king's my tail, whare. through the =lecks, 
The vellow-lettcr'd Geordid keeks. 



Frae morn to e'en its nought but toiling, 
At baking, roasting, frying, boiling: 
An' though the gentrv fast are stechin, 
Yet ev'n the ha' folk fill their pedum 
Wi' sauce, ragouts, and sic like Irashtrie, 
That's little short o' downright wastrie, 
Our whipper-in. v.ve blastit wonner, 
Poor worthless elf. it eat a dinner, 
Better than ony tenant man 
His honour has'in a' the Ian' : 
An' what poor cot-folk pit their painch in 
I own it's past my comprehension. 

LUATII. 

Trowth. Caesar, whyles they're fash't enough ; 
A cotter howkin in a sheugh, 
Wi' dirty stanes biggin a dyke, 
Baring a quarry, and sic like : 
Himsel'. a wife, he ilius sustains, 
A smytrie o' wee duddie weans, 
An' nought but his ban darg, to keep 
Them right and tight in thack an' rape. 

And when they meet wi' sair disasters, 
Like loss o" health, or want of masters. 
Ye maist wad think, a wee touch lunger 
An' they maun starve o' cauld and hunger: 
But, how it comes, I never ken'd yet, 
They're maistly wonderfu' contented; 
And buirdlv chicls, and clever hizzics, 
Are bred in sic a way as this is. 

cesak. 
But then, to see how ye're negleckit. 
How huff d. and cuff d, and disrespeckit ! 
Lord, man '. our gentry care sae little 
For delvers. ditchers, and sic cattle ; 
They gang as saucv by poor folk, 
As i wad by astinding brock. 

I've noticed, on our Laird's court-day. 
An' mony a time my heart's been wae. 
Poor tenant bodies, scant o' cash. 
How they maun thole a factor's snasli ; 
He 11 stamp and threaten, curse and swear. 
He'll apprehend them, point their gear; 
While they maun stan'. wi aspect humble 
And hear it a,' an' fear and tremble 1 
I see how folk live that hae riches : 
But surely poor folk maun be wretched ! 

LAL'TII. 

They're nae sac wrctched's ane wad think, 
Though constantlv on poortith's brink: 
They're sae accustom'd wi' the sight, 
The view o't gi'es them little fright. 

Then chance and fortune are sae guided, 
They're aye in less or mair provided: 
And though fatigued wi' close employment, 
A blink o' rest's a sweet enjoyment. * 

The dearest comfort o' their lives, 
Their gruseie weans an' faithfu' wives; 
The prattling things arc just their pride, 
That sweeten* a' their fire-side. 



BURNS POETICAL WOKKS. 



And whyles twalpcnnic worth o nappy 
Can makthc bodies unco happy; 
Thev lav aside their private cares, • 
To mind the Kirk and .State affairs : 
They'll talk o' patronage and priests, 
\YT kindling fury in their breasts ; 
Or tell what new taxation's cumin, 
And ferlie at the folk in Lon'on. 

As bleak-fac'd Hallowmas returns, 
Thev get the jovial, rantine kirns, 
When rural life, o' every station, 
Unite in common recreation; 
Love Blinks, Wit slaps, an' social Mirth, 
Forgets there's Care upo' the earth. 

That merry day the year begins 
They bar the door on frosty win's ; 
The nappy reeks wi' mantling ream, 
An' sheds a heart-inspiring stream; 
The luntin' pipe, and sneesliin' mill. 
Are handed round wi' right guid will ; 
The cantie auld folks crackin' crouse, 
The young anes rantin' through the house. 
My heart has been sae fain to see them, 
That I for joy hac barkit wi' them. 
Still it's owre true that ye hae said, 
Sic game is now owre at'ten play'd. 
There's monie a creditable stock 
O' decent, honest, fawsont fo'k, 
Arc riven out baith root and branch, 
Some rascal's pridefu' greec to quench, 
Wha thinks to knit himsel the fester 
In favour wi' some gentle master, 
Wha aiblins thrang a-par]iaincntin\ 
For Britain"- guid his saul indentin'. 



Haith, lad, ye little ken about it ; 

For Britain's guid! guid faith I doubt it; 

Say rather, gaun as Premiers lead him, 

Aii' saying a 3*0 or no's they bid him ; 

At operas an' plays parading, 

Mortgaging, gambling, masquerading, 

Or maybe, in a frolic daft, 

To Hague or Calais takes a waft, 

To make a tour, and tak a whirl, 

To learn bon ton, and see the woiT. 

There, at Vienna, or Versailles, 
He rives his father's auld entails ; 
Or by Madrid he takes the rout, 
To thrum guitars and fecht wi' nowt ; 
Or down Italian vista startles. 
Wh re-hunting amang groves o' myrtles; 
Then bouses drumly German water, 
To muk himsel look fair and fatter, 
And clear the consequential sorrows, 
Love-gifts of carnival signoras, 
For Britain's guid ! for her destruction ! 
Wi' dissipation, feud, an' faction. 

LAL"TH. 

Hechman! dear sirs! is that the gate 
They waste sae monie a braw estate? 
Are we sae foughten and harass'd 
For gear to gang that gate at last? 

O wad they stay aback frae courts, 
An' please themselves wi' countra sports, 
It wad tor every ane be better, 
The laird, the tenant, and the cotter! 
For thae frank, rantin'. ramblin' billies, 
Fient hact o' them's ill-hearted fellows, 
Except for breakin' o' their trimmer, 
Or speaking lightly o' their Iimmer, 
Or shootin' o' a hare or moor-cork. 
The ne'er a bit, thev're ill to poor folk. 

But will ye tell me. Maistcr Ca-sar, 
Sure great folk's life's a live of pleasure ; 
Nae cauld or hunger e'er can steer them, 
The very thought o't need mi fear them. 

CiESAR. 



Vll-l'il; ,'j 



It's true, they needna starve or sweat, 
Thro' winter's cauld or simmer's heat ; 
They've nae sair wark to craze their banes, 
And fill auld age wi' grips an' granes : 
But human bodies are sic fools, 
For a' their colleges and schools. 
That when nae real ills perplex them, 
They make enow themselves to vex them, 
An' aye the less they hae to sturt them, 
In like proportion less will hurt them : 
A country fellow at the plough, 
His acres till'd, he's right eneugh; 
A country lassie at her wheel ; 
Her dizzens done, she's unco weel; 
But gentlemen, an' ladies warst, 
Wi' ev'ndown want o' wark are curst. 
They loiter, lounging, lank and lazy ; 
Though de'il haet ails them, yet uneasy ; 
Their days insipid, dull and tasteless ; 
Their nights unquiet, lang. an' restless; 
And e'en their sports, their balls, and races, 
There gallopin' through public places ; 
There's sic parade, sic pomp, an' art, 
The joy can scarcely reach the heart. 
The men cast out in party matches, 
Then sowther a' in deep debauches; 
Ae night they're mad wi' drink and \ 
Niest day their life is past enduring 
The ladies arm in arm, in clusters, 
As great and gracious a' as sisters ; 
But hear their absent thoughts o' ither, 
They're a' run deils an' jades thegither. 
Whyles, o'er the wee bit cup and plaitie, 
They sip the scandal potion pretty; 
Orlee-langs nights, wi' crabbit leuks, 
Pore owre the devil's pictur'd beuks ; 
Stake on a chance a farmer's stack-yard, 
And cheat like only unhang'd blackguard. 

There's some exception, man an' womai 
But this is gentry's life in common. 

By this the sun was out o' sight, 
An' darker gloaming brought the night ; 
The bum-clock humm'd wi' lazy drone, 
The kyc stood rowtin' i' the loan ; 
When up they gat and shook their lugs, 
Rejoiced they were na men but dogs; 
And each took aff his several way, 
Resolved to meet some ither day. 



SCOTCH DRINK. 

Gic him strong drink until he wink, 

That's sinking in despair; 
An' liquor guid to lire his braid, 

That's prest wi' grief an' care ; 
There let him bouse, and deep carouse, 

Wi' bumpers flowing o'er, 
Till he forgets his loves or debts, 

An' minds his griefs no more. 

Solomon's Proverbs, xxxi. G, ', 



Let other poets raise a fracas, 
'Bout vines, and wines, and drt 
And crabbit names and stories 
And grate our lug 



nlcen Bicchus, 



I sing the juice Scotch beare can 
In glass or jug. 


nak u 


thou, my Muse ! guid auld Scot 
Whether through wimpling worm 
Or, richlv brown, ream owre the 
In glorious faem, 


:li Dri 

s tllOl 

irink, 


Inspire me, till 1 lisp and wink. 
To sing thy name! 





Let husky wheat the haughs adorn, 
And aits set up their awnie horn, 
And pease and beans at e'en or morn 



THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY AND PRAYER. 



On thee aft Scotland chows her cootl 
In souple scones, the wale o' food! 
Or tnmblin' in the boiling flood 

Wi' kail an' beef ; 
But when thou pours thy strong heart's blood, 

There thou shines chief. 

Food fills the wame, an' keeps us livin' ; 
Tho' life's a gift no worth receivin', 
When heavy dragg'd wi' pine and grievin' 

But, oil'd by thee. 
The wheels o' life gae down hill, scnevin", 

Wi" rattlin' glee. 

Thou clears the head o' doited Lear : 
Tliou cheers the heart o' drooping Care; 
Thou strings the nerves o* Labour sair, 

At's weary toil; 
Thon even brightens dark Despair 

W' gloomy smile. 

Aft, clad in massy siller weed, 
"Wi 1 Gentles thou erects thy head. 
Yet humbly kind, in time o' need, 

The poor man's wine; 
His wee drap parritch, or his bread, 

Thou kitchens fine. 

Thou art the life o' public haunts ; 

Bout thee, what were our fairs and rants? 

Ev'n godly meetings o' the saunts, 

By thee inspired. 
When gaping they besiege the tents, 

Are doubly fired. 

That merry night wc get the corn in, 
O sweetly 'then thou reams the horn in! 
Or reeking on a New-year inornin' 

In cog or bicker, 
An' just a wee drap sp'ritual burn in, 

An' gusty sucker! 

When Vulcan gies his bellows breath. 
An' ploughmen Rather with their graith, 
O rare! to see thee fizz and freath 

In the lugget en up! 
Then Burnewms comes on like deatli 

At cv ry chaup. 

Nae mercy, then, for aim or steel : 
The brawn ie, banie. ploughman chiel'. 
Brings hard uwrehip, with sturdy wheel, 

The strong forehammer, 
Till block and stiuldie ring and reel 

Wi' dmsome clamour. 

When skrilin' weanies see the light. 
Thou maks the gossips clatter bright. 
How fumblin' cuifs their dearies slight; 

Wae worth the name! 
Xae howdie gets a socials night, 

Or plack frae them. 

When neebors anger at a plea. 
And just as wild and wild can be, 
How easy can the barley bree 

Cement the quarrel! 
It's aye the cheapest lawyer's fee, 

To taste the" barrel. 

Alake ! that e'er my Muse has reason 
To wyte her countrymen wi' treason; 
But monie daily we'et their weason 

Wi' liquors nice. 
And hardly, in a winter's season, 

E'en spier her price. 

Wae worth that brandy, burning trash! 
Fell source o' monv a pain and brash ! 
Twins monie a poor, doylt, drucken hash, 

O' hauf his days; 
An' sends, beside, auld Scotland's cash 

To her warst faes. 



Ye Scots, who wisli auld Scotland well, 
Ye chiefs, tu you mv tale I tell, 
Poor plackless deevils like myscl" ! 

It sets you ill, 
Wi' bitter dearthfu' wines to inell, 

Or foreign gill. 
May gravels round his blather wrench, 
An' gouts torment him inch by inch, 
Wha twists his gruntle wi' a glunch 

O' sur disdain, 
Out owre a glass o' whisky-punch, 

Wi' honest men. 
O Whisky! soul o' plays and pranks! 
Accept a Bardie's humble thanks ! 
When wanting thee, what tuneless cranks 

Are my poor verses ! 
Thou comes— thev rattle i' their ranks 

At 'ither's * * ! 

Thee Ferintosh ! O sadly lost ! 
Scotland lament frae coast to coa c t ! 
Now colic grips, and barking hoast, 

May kill us a' ; 
For loval Forbes" charter'd boast, 

Is ta'en awa' ! 

Tiiae curst horse-leeches o' tli' Excise, 
Wlia mak the Whisky Stells their prize ! 
Hand up thy ban', Deil! ance. twice, thrice! 

There, seize the blinkers; 
An' bake them up in brans tane pies. 

For poor drinkers. 

Fortune! if thou'll but gie me still 
Hale breeks, a scone, an' Whisky gill, 
An' rowth o rhyme to rave at will, 

Ta'k a' the rest, 
An' deal't about as thy blind skill 

Directs thee best. 



THE AUTHOR'S EARNEST CRY AND 
PRAYER* TO THE SCOTCH REPRESEN- 
TATIVES IN THE HOUSE OF COMMONS. 

Dearest of Distillation ! last and 

best 

How art thou lost! Parody on 

Mil ton. 

Ye Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires, 
Wha represent bur burghs an' shires, 
And doucely manage our affairs 

In parliament, 
To you a simple bard'e's prayers 

Are humbly sent. 

Alas ! my roupit Muse is hearse ! 

Your honours' hearts wi' grief 'twad pierce, 

To see her sittin' * * * * 

Low i' the dust, 
An' screechin' out prosaic verse, 

An' like to brust ! 

Tell them wha hae the chief direction, 
Scotland an' me's in great affliction. 
E'er sin' they laid that curst restriction 

On A qui vita? ; 
An" rouse them up to strong conviction 

An' move their pity. 
Stand forth, an' tell yon Premier Y'outh, 5 
The honest, open, naked truth ; 
Tell him o' mine and Scotland's drouth, 

His servans humble ; 
The muckle devil blaw ye south, 

If ye dissemble ! 

Does ony great man glnnch an' gloom ! 
Speak out, and never fash your thumb! 
Let posts an' pensions sink or soom 

Wi' them wha grant 'em: 
If honestlvthcvcanna come, 

Far better want 'cm. 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



In gath'ring votes you were na slack; 
Now stand as tightly by your tack : 
Ne'er claw your lug* an' Jidge your back, 

An' hum an' haw ; 
But rajsc your arm, an' tell your crack 

Before them a , 

Paint Scotland greeting owre her thissle ; 
Her mutchkin stoop astoom's a whissle ; 
An' ■ Excisemen in a bussle, 

Seizin" a stell, 
Triumphant crushin't like a mussel, 

Or lampit shell. 

Then on the tither hand present her. 

A blackguard Smuggler right behint her, 

An' cheerk-for-chow. a chuffie Vintner, 

Colleaguing join, 
Picking her pouch as bare as winter 

Of a' kind coin. 

Is there, that hears the name o' Scot 
But feels his heart's blnid rising hot, 
To see his poor auld Mither's pot 

Thus dung in staves, 
An' plnnder'd o' her hindmost groat 

By gallows knaves ? 

Alas ! I'm hut a nameless wight, 
Trod i' the mire clean out o' sight ! 
But could I like MontgomeriesS fight, 

Or gad like Boswell, 
There's some sark-necks I wad draw tight, 

An' tie some hose well. 

God bless your honours! can yc see't, 
The kind, auld, cantie Carlin greet, 
An' no get warmly to your feet, 

An' gar them hear it, 
An' tell them wi' a. patriot heat, 

Ye winna bear it ! 

Some o' yon nicely ken the laws, 
To round the period an' pause, 
An' wi' rhetoric clause on clause 

To mak harangues ; 
Then echo thro' St Stephen's wa's, 

Auld Scotland's wrangs. 

Dempster, a true-blue Scot I'se warran : 
Thee, aith-detestin;:. chaste Kilkerran ; 7 
An' that glib-garret Highland baron, 

The Laid o' Graham ;* 
An' ane, a chap that's auld farran. 

Dundas his name. 

Erskine, a spunkie Norland billie; 
True Campbells, Frederick, an' Cay : 
An' Livingstone, the bauld Sir Willie 

An' monr ithers, 
Whom auld Demosthenes or Tally 



Might r, 



1 for 1 



See, sodger Hugh, my watchman stented. 

If bardies e'er are represented ; 

I ken that if your sword were wanted, 

Ye'd lend a hand, 
Put when there's ought to say anent it. 
Ye're at a stand. 

Arouse, my boys ! exert your mel tie, 
To get auld Scotland back her kettle : 
Or faith, I'll wad mv new pleugh-pcttle 

You'll see't or lang, 
she'll teach you, wi' a reekin whittle, 

Anither sang. 

This while she's been in cank'rous mood; 
Her lost Militia fired her blnid ; 
(Ceil na they never mair do guid, 

Plav'd her that pliskie !> 
And now she's like to rin red-wnd 

About her Whtelsy. 



An', Lord, if ancc they pit her till't, 
Her tartan petticoat she'll kilt, 
An' dark an' pistol at her belt, 

She'll tak the streets, 
An' rin her whittle to the hilt 

Fill' first she meets! 

For * * * sake, sirs ! then speak her fair 
An' straik her cannie wi' the hair, 
An' to the muckle house repair, 

Wi' instant speed. 
An' strive, wi' a' your wit and lear, 

To get remead. 

Yon ill-tongued tinkler. Charlie Fox. 
May taunt you wi' his jeers an' mocks ; 
But gie hini't het, my hearty cocks ! 

E'en cowe the caddie ! 
And send him to his dicing-box 

An' sportin' lady. 

Tell yon guid blnid o' auld Boconnock's, 
I 11 lie iiis debt twa mashlum bonnocks, 
Air drink his health in ;.uld Xanse Tinnock'c 9 

Nine times a week. 
If he some scheme, like tea an' winnocks, 

Wad kindly seek. 
Could he some commutation broach, 
I'll pledge my aith in guid braid Scotch, 
He need na fear their foul reproach, 

Nor erudition, 
Yon mixtie-maxtie, queer hotch-potch 

The Coalition. 

Auld Scotland has a raucle tongue ; 
She's just a devil wi' a rung; 
Air if she promise auld or young 

To tak their part, 
Tho' by the neck she should be strung, 

She'll no desert. 

An' now, ye chosen Five-and-Forty, 
May still your Mither's heart support ye: 
Then, tho' a Minister grow dorty, 

An' kick your place, 
Ye'll snap your fingers, poor an' hearty, 

Before his face. 

God bless your Honours a' your days, 
Wi' sowpsV kail and bratsV claise, 
In spite o' a' the thievish kaes 

That haunt St. Jamie's! 
Your humble poet sings an' prays 

While Rab his name i^. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Let half-starved slaves in warmer skies 
See future wines, rich clust'ring, rise; 
Their lot auld Scotland ne'er envies, 

Put blithe and frisky, 
She eves her freeborn. ina,r,, 

Tak aff their Whisky. 

What tho' their Phoebus kinder warms, 
While fragrance blooms and beauty charms ; 
When wretches range, in famish'd swarms, 

The scented groves, 
Or hounded forth, dishonour arms 

In hungry droves. 

Their gun's a burden on their shouther; 
They downa bide the stink o' pouther; 
Their bauldest thought's a hank'ring swither 

Or stan' or rin, 
Till skelp— a shot— they're, a' throwther. 

To save their skin. 

But bring a Scotsman frae his hill, 
Clap in his cheek a Highland gill, 
Sav, such is royal (ieorge's will, 

Ah' there's the foe. 
He has nae thought but how to kill 

Twa at a blow. 



THE HOLY FAUR. 



Nac caukl, faint-hearted doubtings tease h 
I >eath comes, with fearless eye he sees hii. 
WP bluidy hand a welcome gies him ; 

An' when he fa's, 

His latest draught o' brealhiu' lea'se him 

In faint huzzas. 

Sages their solemn een may steek 
An' raise a philosophic reek, 
An' physically causes seek, 

In clime and season ; 
But tell me "Whisky's name in Greek, 

I'll tell the reason. 

Scotland, my auld, respected Mither; 
Tho' whyles ye moistify your leather. 
Till whare you sit, on craps o' heather, 

Ye tine your dam: 
Freedom and Whisky gang thegithcr!— 

Tak aff your dram ! 



THE HOLY FAIR." 
A robe of seeming truth and trust 

Hid crafty Observation ; 
And secret hang with poison'd crust, 

The dirk of Defamation : 
A mask that like the gorget show'd 

Dye-varying on the pigeon ; 
And for a mantle large and broad, 

He wrapt him in Religion. 

Hijpocrisy-a-la-mode. 



Upon* a simmer Sunday morn, 

When Nature's face is fair, 
I walked forth to view the corn, 

An' snuff the caller air. 
The rising sun owrs Galston muirs, 

Wi' glorious light was glintin' 
Tlie hares were hirplin' down the furs, 

The lav'rocks tliev were chantin' 
ITi' sweet that day. 

As lightsomely I glowr'd abroad 

To see a scene say gay, 
Three hizzies. early at the road, 

Cam skelpin' up the way: 
Twa had manteeles o' dolefu' black, 

Butane wi' lyart lining; 
The third that gaed a wee a-back, 

Was in the fashion shining, 
Fii' gay that day. 

The twa appear'dlike sisters twin. 

In feature, form, an' claes: 
Their visage wither'd. lang, an' thin, 

An' sour as ony slae ; 
The third came up, hap-stap-an'-lowp. 

As light as ony lambie. 
An' wi' a eurchi'e low did stoop, 

As soon as e'er she saw me, 
Fii' kind that day. 
Wi' bonnet aff. qnoth I, "Sweet lass, 

I think ye seem to ken me: 
I'm sure I've seen that bonnie face, 

But yet I canna name ye. 
Quo' she. an' laughin' as she spak, 

An' tak's me bv the hands. 
" Ye, for my sake, ha'e gi'en the feck 

Of a' the ten commands 

A screed some day. 

"My iiame is fun— your cronie clear, 



-: -j .1 :;; thore, von rankled ;air. 
"'' 'amens laughin' 
t thorn this dny." 



: Quoth I, " Wi' a' my heart, I'll do't : 
i I'll get my Sunday's sark on, 
j And meet yon on the holy spot ; 
Faith, we'se hae fine remarkin' !" 
Then I gaid haine at crowdie-time, 
I And soon I made me ready ; 
i For roads were clad, frae side to side, 
Wi' mony a weary body, 

In droves that day. 

Here farmers gash, in riding graith, 

Gaed hoddin by their cottars ; 
There, swankies young, in braw braid-claith, 

Are springin o'er the gutters. 
The lasses, skelpin' bare lit, thrang, 

In silks an' scarlets glitter: 
Wi' sweet milk-cheese in inonie a whang, 

And farls bak'd wi" butter, 

Fu' crump that day. 

When by the plate we set our nose, 

Weel heaped up by ha'pence, 
A greedy glowr Black Bonnet throws, 

And we maun draw our tippence. 
Then in we go to see the show. 

On every side they gatherin'. 
Some carrying deals, some chairs an' stools, 

An some^are busy blethrin' 

Bight loud that day. 

Here stands a shed to fend the show'rs, 

An' screen our contra Gentry, 
Their racer Jess, an twa-three more, 

Are blinkin' at the entry. 
Here sits a raw of tittlin' jades, 

Wi' heavin' breast and bare neck, 
An' there a batch of wabster lads, 

Blackguardin' frae Kilmarnock, 
For fun this day. 

Here some arc thinkin' on their sins, 

And some upo' their elaes; 
And curses feet that fyl'd his shins, 

Anither sighs an' prays; 
On this hand sits a chosen swatch, 

Wi' screw'd-up grace-proud faces; 
On that a set o' chaps at watch, 

Thrang winkin' on the lasses 
To chairs that day. 

O happy is the man an' blest ! 

Nae wonder that it pride him !) 
Wli;t'« ain dear lass, that he iikes best, 

Comes clinkin' down beside him! 
Wi' arm repos'd on the chair-back, 

lie sweetly does compose him; 
Which, by degrees, slips round her neck. 

An's loof upon her bosom, 

Unkenn'd that day. 

Now a' the congregation o'er 

Is silent expectation: 
For Moodie speels the holy door 

Wi' tidings o damnation. 
Should Ilornie. as in ancient davs, 

•Mang sons o" God present him. 
The vera sight o" Moodie's face, 

To'3 ain net hame had sent him 
Wj' fright that day. 

Hear how he clears the points o" faith 

"Wi' rattlin" an" thumpin" ! 
Now meekly calm, now wild in wrath. 

He's stampin' an' he's jumpin'! 
His lengthen'd chin, his turn'd-up snout. 

His eldritch s'uieel and gestures, 
Oh, how they fire the Heart devout, 

Like cantharidian plasters, 
On sic a day ! 

But hark! the tent has chang'd in • :u: . 

There's peace and ro-:t :uo linger : 
F.r a' tho real j::igos rise. 

Thc-v canna sit for anger. 



C BCRN3' 

Smith opens out his cauld harangues 

On practice and on morals; 
An' aft' the godly pour in timings, 

To gie the jars an' barrels 
A lift that day. 
What signifies his barren shine 

Of moral pow'rs and reason 'i 
His English stylo, an' gesture fine, 

Are a' clean out o' season. 
Like Socrates or Antonine, 

Or some auld pagan Heathen, 
The moral man he does define, 

But ne'er a word o' faith in 

That's right that day. 
In guid time comes an antidote 

Against sic poison'd nostrum: 
For Peebles, frae the water-fit, 

Ascends the holy rostrum : 
See, up he's got the word o' God, 

An' meek an' mim has view'd it, 
"While Common-sen^e has ta'en the road, 

An' aft, an' up the Cowgatc.n 
Fast, fast, that day. 

Wee Miller neist the guard relieves, 

An' orthodoxy raibles, 
Tho' in his heart he weel believes. 

And thinks it auld wives' fables : 
But, faith; the birkie wants a manse 

So cannily he hnmes them; 
Altho' his carnal wit and sense 
Like haftins-ways o'ercomes him 
At times that day. 

Now butt an' ben, the change-house fills, 

Wi' yill-canp commentators : 
Here's crying out for bakes and gills, 

And there the pint stoup clatters ; 
While thick an' timing, an' loud an' lang, 

Wi' logic, an' wi' Scripture. 
They raise a din, that in the end, 

Is like to breed a rupture 

O' wrath that day. 

Leeze me on Drink! it gi'es us raair 

Than either School or College: 
It kindles wit. it waukens lair, 

It pangs us fou o' knowledge. 
Be't whisky gill, or penny wheep, 

Or ony stronger potion, 
It never fails, on drinking deep, 

To kittle up our notion 

By night or day. 

The lads an' lasses, blythely bent 

To mind baith saul and bodv, 
Sit round the table weel content, 

An' steer about the toddy 
On this ane's dress, and ane's leuk, 

They're makin' observation ; 
While some are cozie i' the neulc, 

An' forming assignations 

To meet some day. 

But now the Lord's ain trumpet touts, 

Till a' the hills are rairin', 
An' echoes back return the shouts: 

Black Russell is na sparin': 
His piercing words, like Highland swords 

Divide the joints an' marrow; 
Bis talk <.' Hell, when- devils dwell, 

Our very sauls does liarrow 

Wi' fright that day. 

As vast, unbottom'd, boundless pit, 

Fill'd fou o' lowin. brunstane, 
Wha's ragin' flame, and scorchin' heat 

Wad melt the hardest whun-stane ! 
The half asleep start up wi' fear, 

And think they hear it roarin', 
When presently it does appear, 

'Twas but some neighbour snorin' 
Asleep that day. 



POETICAL WORKS. 

'Twad be owre lang a tale to tell 

How monie stories past, 
An' how they crowded to the yill, 

When they were a' dismist :" 
How drink gaed round, in cogs an' caups, 

Amang the farms an' benches; 
An' cheese an' bread, frae women's laps, 

Was dealt about in lunches 

An' dawdsthat day. 

In comes a gaucie, gash guidwifc, 

An' sits down by the fire, 
Syne draws her kebbuck an' her knife ; 

The lasses they are shyer. 
The auld guidmen, about the grace, 

Frae side to side they bother, 
Till some ane by his bonnet lays, 

And gi's them't like a thether, 
Fu' lang that day. 

Waesucks ! for him that gets nae lass, 

Or lasses that hae naething! 
Sma' need has he to say a grace, 

Or melvie his Ijraw elaithing! 
wives be mindfu" ance yoursel" 

How bonnie lads ye wanted, 
An' dinna for a kebbuck-hcel, 

Let lasses be affronted 
On sic a day! 

Now Clinknmbell, wi' rattlin' tow, 

Begins to jow an' croon; 
Some swagger ha me, the best they dow, 

Some wait the afternoon. 
At slaps the billies halt a blink, 

Till lasses strip their shoon: 
Wi' faith an" hope, an' love an' drink, 

They're a' in famous tune, 

For crack that day. 

How monie hearts this day converts 

O' sinners and o' lasses! 
Their hearts o' stane, gin night, are gane, 

As soft as ony flesh is. 
There's some are fou o' love divine ; 

There's some are fou o' brandy ; 
An' inony jobs that day begin, 

May end in houghmagandie 
Some ither day. 



DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK : 

A TRUE STORY. 

Some books are lies frae end to end, 
And some great lies were never penn'd- 
Ev'n Ministers, they hae been kenn'd, 

In holy rapture, 
A rousing wind, at times, to vend, 

And nail't wi' Scripture. 

But this that I am gaun to tell, 
Which lately on a night befell, 
Is just as true's the De'il's in hell 

Or Dublin city : 
That e'er he nearer comes oursel' 

'S a muckle pity. 

The Clachan yill had made me canty— 

I was nae fou, but just had plenty; 

I stacher'd whiles, but yet took tent aye 

To free the ditches; 
An' hillocks, stanes, an' bushes, kenn'd aye 

Frae ghaists an' witches. 

The rising moon began to glow'r 

The distant Cunnock hills out-owre; . 

To count her horns, wi' a' my pow'r, 

I set mysel' ; 
But whether she had three or four, 

I couldna tell. 



DEATH AND DOCTOR HORNBOOK. 



I was come round about the hill, 
And todlin down on Willie's mill, 
Setting my staff wi' a' my skill, 

To keep me sicker: 
Tho' leeward whyles. against my will, 

I took a bicker. 

I there wi' Something did forgather, 

That, put me in an eerie swither: 

An' awfn' scythe, out-owns ae shouther, 

A thrce-taed leister on the ither. 



Its stature seem'd lang Scotch ells twa, 
The queerest shape that e'er I saw, 
For rient a wame it had awa; 

And then, its shanks 
They were as thin, as sharp, an' sum" 

As cheeks o' branks. 

• Guid-een,' quo' I ; ' Friend! hac ye been maw- 



At length, says I, 'Friend, where ye gaun? 
Will ye go back ':' 

It spak right howe,— 'Mv name is Death, 
But be n;i tley'd '—Quoth 1. ' Guid faith, 
Ye're maybe come to stap ray breath: 

But tent me, billic : 
I red ye weel, tak care o' skaith, 

See, there's a gully!" 

1 Guidman." quo" he, ' put tip your whittle, 
I'm no desi.u'n'd to trv its mettle , 
But if I did I wad be kittle. 

To be raislcar'd, 
I wad ua mind it, no. that, spittle 

Out owre my beard." 

1 Weel, weel'.' says I. -a bargain be't : 

Coin". ui"'s your hand, an' sae we're grcc't : 
We'll ease our shanks an" tak a seal. 

Come gie's your news; 
This while 13 ye hac been niony a gate, 

At mony a house. 

' Ay, ay !' quo' he, an' shook his head, 
' Its een a lam:, lang time indeed 
Sin' I began to nick the thread. 

An" choke the breath; 
Folk maim do something for their bread. 

An' sac maun Death. 

'Six thousand years are near hand fled, 

Sin' I was to the butch'ring bred. 

An* mony a scheme in vain's been laid, 

To stap or scar me : 
Till ane Hornbook's'-" taen up the trade, 

An' faith, he'll waur me. 

■ Ye ken Jock Hornbook, i' the Clachan, 
Deil niak his kind's hood in a srkuchan ! 
He's grown sae weel acquaint wi' Bnehan'j 

An* ither chaps. 
The weans hand out their Angers laughin 1 
• An' po'uk my hips. 

' See. here's a scythe, and there's a dart, 
They hae j iere'd moriy a gallant heart ; 
But Doctor Hornbook, wi" his art 

And cursed skill. 
Has made them baith no worth a * * * 

- i) * * * * haet they'll kill. 

'Twos but yestreen, nae farther gaen, 

J threw a noble throw at ane : 

Wi' less, I'm sure, I've hundreds slain; 

But deil-ma-care, 
It just play'd dirl on the banc, 

But did nae mair. 



1 Hornbook was bv. wi' readv art, 
And had sae fortified the part, 
That when I looked to my dart, 

It was sae blunt. 
Fient haet o't wad hae piere'd the heart 

Of a kail-runt. 

■ I drew my scythe in sic a fury, 
I nearhand cowpit wi' mv hurrv. 
But yet the bauld Apothecary * 

Withstood the shock; 
I might as weel hae tried a quarry 

O' hard whin rock. 

' Ev'n then he canna get attended, 
Altho' their face he ne'er had kenn'd it, 
Just in a kail-blade, and send it, 

As soon he smells' f. 
Baith their disease, and what Avill mend if 

At once he tells't. 



; An then a' doctoi 

Ota" diill"ll-i:.lls. 

A' kinds o' xes, 



and v 



The farina of beans and pease. 

He hast in plenty ; 
Aqua-fontis, what you please, 

He can content ye. 

■ Forbye some new. uncommon weapons, 

Urinus spiritus of capons : 

Or niitc-honi shavings, lilimrs, scrapings; 

Distill' d per se ; 
Sal-alkali o' midge-tail clippings, 

An" mony mac.' 

• Wacs me for Johnny Ged's hole"; now ;' 
Quo' I. • It' that the news be true! 

His braw calf-ward where gowans grow. 

Sae white an' bonnie, 
Nae doubt they'll rive it wi' the plough : 

They'll ruin Johnnie '.' 

The creature griun'd an eldritch laugh, 

An' says, ye need na yoke the plcituh, 
Kirk-yards will soon lie till'd one ugh, 
Tak ye nae fear: 
They'll a' be trench'd wi' mony a shcngli 

In twa-three year. 

• Whare I kill'd ane a fair strae death, 
By loss o' blood o' want of breath, 
This night I'm free to tak mv aith. 

That Hornbook's skill 
Has clad a score i' their last claith. 
By drap an" pill. 

' An honest wabstcr to his trad". 

Whose wife's twa nieves were scarce weel bred, 

Gat tippence-worth to mend her head, 

When it was sair 
The wife slade eannic to her bed, 

But ne'er spake mair. 

V country Laird had ta"en the batts, 
Or some curumrring in his guts ; 
His only son for Hornbook sets. 

An' pays him well ; 
The lad, for twa guid gimmcr pets, 

Was laird himsel". 

\ bonnie lass, ye ken her name. 
Some ill-brewn drink had hov'd her wame ; 
She trusts hersel', to hide the shame, 

In Hornbook's care ; 
Horn sent her aff to her lang hame 

To hide it there. 



'That's justa swatch o" Hornbook's a 
Thus (joes he on from day to day, 

Thus does he poison, kill, tin' slay, 

■•'- weel paid for't; 

* dirt. 



r.UKNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



.\n s weel paid I 
Yet stops me o' my lawfu' prey, 

With his d*** 



But hark ! I'll tell you of a plot, 
Though ilinna ye be speaking o't ; 
I'll nail the self-conceited sot, 

As dead's a herriif , 
Neist time we meet, I'll wad a groat, 

He gets his farin' !' 
But just as he began to tell. 
The auld kirk-hammer strak the bell, 
Nome wee short hour ayont the twal. 

Which rais'd us baith 
1 took the way that pleased mysel', 

And sae did Death. 



THE BEIGS OF AYE: 
A POEM. 
INSCRIBED TO J. BALLANTTNE, ESQ., ATR. 
The simple bard, rough at the rustic plough, 
.Learning his tuneful trade from every bough; 
The chanting linnet, or the mellow thrush, 
Hailing the setting sun, sweet, in the green 

thorn bush : 
The soaring lark, the piercing red-breast shrill. 
Or deep-toned plovers, grey, wild whistling o'er 

the hill ; 
Shall he, nurst in the peasant's lowly shed, 
To hardy independence bravely bred, 
By early poverty to hardship steel'd, 
And train'd to arms in stern misfortune's field— 
.Shall he be guilty of their hireling crimes, 
The servile, mercenary Swiss of rhymes 
Or labour hard the panegyric close, 
With all the venal soul of dedicating prose ? 
No ! though his artless strains he rudely sings, 
And throws his hand uncoutlily o'er the strings, 
He glows with all the spirit of a Bard, 
Fame, honest fame, his great, his dear reward. 
Still if some patron's generous care lie trace, 
-killed in '.he secret, to bestow with grace ; 
WhenBallanfyne befriends his humble name, 
\nd hands the rustie stranger up to fame. 
With heart-felt throbs his grateful bosom 

swells, 
The godlike bliss, to give alone excels. 



'Twas when the stacks get on their winter 

hap, 
And thack and rape secure the toil-won crap: 
Potatoe bings are snugged up frae skaith 
Of coming winter's biting, frosty breath; 
The bees rejoicing o'er their simmer toils, 
Unnmnber'd buds an' flowers delicious spoils. 
Sealed up with frugal care in massive waxen 

piles. 
Are doom'd by man. that tyrant o'er the weak, 
The death o' devils, smoor'd wi' brimstone 

reek : 
The thundering gun- are heard on ev'ry side, 
The wounded coveys, reeling, scatter wide; 
The feather' d field-mates bound by Nature's 

tie, 
Sires, mothers, children, in one carnage lie : 
What warm, poetic heart, bur inly bleeds, 
And execrates man's savage, ruthless deeds!) 
(Nae mair the flower in held or meadow 

springs: 
Nae mair the grove wi' airy conceit rings, 
Except, perhaps, t lit robin's whi-< ling •/! .c . 
Proud C the height o' tome bit half-lang tiee . 
The boaryaioims precede the sunny days, 
Zllld, cairn, -:.-.. '..-..--.■- :■:. 

blaze, 
"TJlc. th-.'ktlr- g;5.-;.m-rvi-.--s -.vnntcnin the 



Ac 



iglit. 



1 th 



, ..jd, or haplv prest wi' care; 
lie left his bed, and took his wavward route. 
And down by Simpson'si" whecl'd the left 

about : 
(Whetlier impcllc'd by all-directing Fate, 
To witness what I after shall narrate ; 
Or whether rapt in meditation high, 
He wander'd out he knew not where nor wliv). 
The drowsy Dungeon-clock. i« had numbor'd two. 
And Wallace tow eri-s had sworn the fact was 

true: 
The tide-swoln Firth, with sullen sounding 

roar, 
Thro' the stiil night dash'd hoarse along the 

shore : 
All else was hush'd in Nature's closed e'e : 
Tiie silent limoii .-hone high o'er tower and tree: 
The chilly frost, beneath the silver beam, 
Crept, gently -crusting, o'er the glittering 

stream. 
^ When, lo ! on either hand the list'ning bard. 
The clanging sough of whistling wings he 

heard ; 
Two dusky forms dart thro' the midnight air. 
Swift as the Costs drives on the wheeling hare; 
Ane on th' Auld Brig Ids airv shape unrears, 
The ither flutters o'er tin rising piers': 
Our warlock Rhymer instantly descry' d 
The sprites that owre the Brigs of Ayr preside. 
(Thae Bards are second-sighted is nae joke, 
An' ken the lingo of the spiritual folk: 
Fays, Spunkies, Kelpies, a', they can explain 

them, 
And e'en the vera Deils they brawly ken them.) 
Auld Brig appear'd of ancient Pictish race, 
The vera wrinkles Gothic in his face: 
He seem'd as he wi' Time had warstl'd lang, 
New Brig was buskit in a braw new coat, 
That he, at Lon'on frae Ane Adams, got : 
In's hand five taper staves as smooth's a bead, 
Wi' virls and whirlygigums at the head. 
The Goth was stalking round with anxious 

search 
Spying the time-worn flaws in every arch : 
It chane'd his new-come neebmir took his e'e,- 



Wi' 



L" tO SC( 



.eh 



I doubt na", frien', ; 
shank, 

Ance ye were streekit o'er frae bank to bank ; 
Lut gin ve be a brig as auld as me— 
Tho' faith that dav I doubt yeTl never see— 
There'll be. if that day come, I'll wad a boddle, 
Some fewer whigmaleeries in your noddle. 

NEW BRIO. 

Auld Vandal, ve but show your little mouse, 
Just much about it wi' your scanty sense; 
Will your poor narrow foot-path of a street. 
Where twa-wheel-barrows tremble when they 

Your ruin'd formless bulk, o' stain an' lime. 
Compare wi' bonnie Brigs o' modern time ? 
There's men o' taste would tak' the Dm. t- 

Tho' they' should cast the very sark and swim. 
Ere they would grate their feelings wi' the 

view 
Of sic an ugly Gothic hulk as you. 

AULD BRIG 

Concited gowk: puff 'd up wi' windy pride ! 
This monie a year ! ve stood the flood an' tid : . 
An' tho wi' crazy eild I m sair forfairn, 
I'll bo a Brig when ye re a shapeless cairn . 

■ ii'.'lc k. n about the matter, 
But. i • "a three •,. mters '.'ill inform ye better. 



THE ORDIXATIOX. 



When heavy, dark, continued, a-day rains. 
Wi deepening deluges o'crflow the plains ; 
When from the hills where springs tee brawling 

Coil, 
Or stately Lugar's mossy fountains boil, 
Or where the Greenock winds his moorland 

course 
Or haunted Garpaisi draws his feeble source, 
Arous'd by blust'ring winds and spotted 

throwes, 
Inmony a torrent down his sna'-broorowes; 
While crashing ice, borne on the roaring speat. 
.Sweeps dams, Ira' mills, an' brigs, a" to the gate : 
And from Glenbuck'^2 down to the Batten key,-'3 
Auld Ayr, is just one lengthen'd tumbling sea : 
Then down ye'U hurl, dell nor ye never rise ! 
And dash the giimlie jaups up to the pouring 

skies : 
A l.-^on sadly teaching, to your cost. 
That Architecture's noble art is lost ! 

NEW BRIG. 

Fine Architecture, trowth, I needs must say*t 
o't 
The Lord be thankit that we've tint the gate 

o't! 
Gaum, ghastly. ghai<t-al!nr;r.g edifices, 
Hanging with threat'ning jut, like precipices; 
O'er-arching, mouldly. gloom-inspiring coves, 
Supporting roofs fantastic, stony groves: 
Windows and doors, in nameless sculpture 

drest, 
With order, symmetry, or taste nnblcst : 
Forms like some bedlam statuary's dream. 
The craz'd creations of misguided whim ; 
Forms might be worshipped on the bended knee. 
And still the second dread command be free. 
Their likeness is not found on earth, in air, or 

sea. 
Mansions that would disgr lcc the building taste 
Of any mason, reptile, bird, or i. 
Fit only for a doited monkish r 
Or frosty maids forsworn the dear embraeo : 
Or cuifs of later times, wha held tiie notion 
That sullen gloom was sterling true devotion. 
Fancies that our guidbrugh denies protection. 
And soon may they expire, unblest with resur- 
rection ! 

AUI.U BRIG. 

ye, my dear-remembcr'd ancient y 
Were yc but here to share mywoun< 

ings ! 
Ye worthy Proveses, an' inony a I'.ailie. 
Wha in the paths o' righteousness did toil aye: 
Ye dainty Deacons, an' ye douce Conveners, 
To whom our moderns are but causey -cleaners : 
Ye godly brethren of the sacred gown. 
Wha meekly gae your hnrdies to the smiters ; 
And (what would now be strange) yi 

writers : 
A' ye douce folk I've borne aboon the broo. 
Were ye but here, what would ye say or do! 
How would your spirits groan in deep vexati •!>.. 
To see each melancholy alteration ; 
And agonizing, curse the time and place 
When yc begat the base, degenerate race: 
Xae lahger rev'rend men. their countrv's glorv. 
In plain braid Scots hold forth a plain braid 

story : 
Nae langer thrifty citizens, an" douce, 
.Meet owre a pint, or in the council-house : 
Kut staumrel corkv-headed graceless gentrv. 
The herryment and ruin of the country: 
Men, three parts made by tailors and by bar- 
bers 

Wha waste your well-hain'd gear en d d 

new brigs and harbour! 

new Bm<>. 
Now hand von there! for faith! y 
enough. 
And mnckle inair than ye can uiak to through: 



f but little, 



As for your Priesthood, I shall 

Corbies and Clergy are a shot r _ 

Bar. under favour o : your langer beard, 

Abuse o Magistrates might weel be spared: 

To liken them to your auld-warld squad, 

1 must needs say comparisons are odd. 

In Ayr, wag-wits nae mair can hae a handle 

To mouth -a citizen," a term o' scandal: 

Xae mair the council waddles down the street 

In all the pomp of ignorant conceit; 

Men wha grew wise prig-in' owre hops an' 

raisins, 
Or gather'd lib'ral views in bonds and seisins, 
If haply Knowledge, on a random tramp, 
Had shored them with a glimmer of his lamp. 
And would to Common-sense, for once betravod 

them. 
Plain dull Stupidity stept kindly in to aid them. 
What farther clishniaelaver might been said, 
What bloody wars, if Sprites had blood to shed. 
Xo man can tell: but all before their sigh 
A fairy train appear'd in order bright : 
Adown the glitt'ring stream they featlv danced ; 
Bright to the moon their various' . 

glanced: 
They footed o'er the wat'ry glass so neat, 
The infant ice scarce bent 'beneath their feet 
While arts of Minstrelsy among th'-m rung. 
And soul-ennobling bards heroic ditties simg. 
O had M'Lauchlin.-' thairm-inspiring sage, 
Been there to hear this heavenly baud engage. 
When thro' his dear strathspeys they bore with 

Highland rage: 
Or when they struck old Scotia's melting air-, 
The lover's raptured joys or bleeding cares; 
How would his Highland lug been nobier tired. 
And even his matchless hand with finer tor. h 

inspir'd ! 
Xo guess could tell what instrument appear'd, 
But all the soul of Music's -elf was heard- 
Harmonious concert rung in every part, 
While simple melody pour'd moving on the 

heart. 
The Genius of the stream in front appears, 
A venerable chief advanced in years ; 
His hoary head with water-lilies crown'd, 
Hi- manly leg with garter tangle bound. 
Xcxt came the loveliest pair in all the rim-. 
Sweet Female Beauty hand in hand with sprint : 
Then, crown'd with flow'ry hay. came Rural 

.Toy. 
And Summer, with his fervid-beaming eve . 
All-cheering Plenty, with her flowing horn. 
Led yellow Autumn wreath'd with nodding 

corn : 
Then Winter's time-bleached locks did hpary 

show. 
By Hospitality with cloudless brow; 
Next followed Courage with his martial stride, 
From where the Feal wild-woody coverts hide 
Benevolence, with mild benignant air. 
A female^ form came from the tow'rs of Stair ! 
Learning and Worth in equal measure.^ trode 
From simple Catrinc. their lum;-lov'd abode; 
Last, white-rob'd Peace, crown'd with a hazel 

wreath. 
To rustic Agriculture did bequeath 
The broken iron instruments ot death: 



THE ORDIXATIOX. 
For sense they little owe to frugal Heav'n— 
To please the mob they hide the little giv'n. 



KiL-.tAKXOCK Wabsters. fidge and claw. 

An' pour your creeshie nations; 
An' ye wha leather rax an' dra-w, 

Ota' denominations. 



10 



i' POLTIC.vL WORKS 



Swith to the Laigh Kirk, ane an' a' 

An there tak up votir stations ; 
Then all' 10 I'n-bic''^ in a raw, 
An' pour divine libations 

Tor joy this day. 



Curst Common-sense, that imp o' bell, 

Can in wi' .Maggie Lauder:'-' 7 
But Oliphant-s have made her veil. 

An' Russell-' sair misca'd her: 
This day. Alaeinlayau tak> ihc Hail. 

An ' he's the bov will bland her : 
He'll clap a shangan on her tail, 

An' set the bairns t<> daud her 
Wi' dirt this day. 



Z'.Iak haste an' turn king David owrc, 

An' lilt wi' holy clangor; 
O' double verse come gie us four, 

An' skirl up the Bangor : 
This day the Kirk kicks up a stoure, 

Nae mair the knaves shall wrung her. 
For heresy is in her power, 

And gloriously she'll whang her 
Wi' pith this day. 

IV. 

Come, let a proper text be read, 

An' touch it aft" wi' vigour, 
How graceless Ham 3 ' leugli at his dad, 

Which made Canaan a nigger ; 
Or Phineha> 3 - drove the murdering blade, 

Wi' whore-abhorring rigour ; 
Or Zipporah, 33 the scaulding jade, 

Wus like a bluidy tiger 

I'th' inn that da v. 



There, try his mettle on the creed, 

An' bind him down wi' caution, 
That stipend is a carnal weed, 

He taks but for the fashion ; 
An' gie him o'er the flock to feed, 

An' punish each transgression ; 
Especial, rams that cross the breed, 

Cie them sufficient threshin', 

Spare them nae day. 

VI. 

Now auld Kilmarnock, cock thy tail, 

An' toss thv horns fu' canty ; 
Nae more thou 'It rowt out-owre the dale, 

Because thy pasture's scanty ; 
For lapfu's large o' gospel kail 

Shall All thy crib in plenty, 
An' runts <>' grace, the pick and wale, 

No gi'eii bvwav o' daintv. 
But .ilka day. - 



Nae mair by Babel's streams we'll weep, 

To think upon our Zion ; 
An' hing our fiddles up to sleep, 

Like baby-clouts a dryin' ; 
Come, screw the pegs, with tunefu' cheep, 

An' o'er the thairms be try in' ; 
Oli. rare ! to sec our olbucks wheep, 

An a' like lamb-tails flvin' 
Fu' fast this day 

VIII. 

Lang, Patronage, wi' rod o' aim, 

Has shored the Kirks undoin', 
As lately Fcnwick, 3 * sair forfairn, 

Has proven to its ruin: 
Our patron, honest man! Gloncairn, 

lie saw mischief was brcwin' ; 
An' like a godly elect bairn 

He's waled us out a true ane 
An' sound this day 



Now Robertsons harangue nac man, 

But steed your gap for ever; 
Or try the wicked town of Ayr, 

For there they'll think yoti clever ; 
Or. nae reflection on yourlear. 

Ye may commence a shaver ; 
Or to the Netherton36 repair, 

An" turn a carpet weaver 

Aff-hand this day. 



3Iutrio" and you were just a match, 

We never had sic twa drones; 
Auld Hornie did the Laigli Kirk watch, 

Just like a winkin' baudrons : 
An' aye he catch'd the tither wretch, 

To fry them in his caudruns : 
But now his honour maun detach, 

Wi' a' his brim-tone squadrons, 
Fast, fast, this day. 

XI. 

See. see auld Orthodoxy's facs, 

She's swingein' through the city ; 
Hark, how the nine-tail'd cat she plays ! 

I vow it's unco pretty : 
There Learning, wi' his Greekish face, 

Grunts out some Latin ditty : 
An' Common-sense is gaun. she says, 

To mak to Jamie Beattie 3 » 

Her plaint this day. 

XII. 

But there's Morality himscl', 

Embracing a' opinions ; 
Hear, how he gies the tither yell, 

Between his twa companions; 
See, how she peels the skin an' fell, 

As ane was peelin' onions 1 
Now there— they're packed aft to hell, 

An' banish' d our dominions, 

Henceforth this day. 

XIII. 

happy day! rejoice, rejoice! 

Come bouse about the porter! 
Morality's demure decoys 

Shall here, nae mair find quarter: 
Macinlay, Russell, are the boys, 

That heresy can torture ; 
They'll gie her on a rape a hoyse, 

An' cowe her measure shorter 

By the head some day. 

XIV, 

Come bring the tither mutchkin in, 

An' here's for a conclusion, 
To every New Light 3 " mother's son, 

From this time forth Confusion: 
If mair they deave us wi' their din, 

Or Patronage intrusion, 
We'll light a spunk, an' ev'ry skin, 

We'll rin them aff in fusion ■ 
Like oil some day. 



T II E C A L F. 

TO THE REV. MR. JAMES STEVEN; 

On his Text, Malachi, ch. iv. ver. :.'. "And they 
shall go forth, and grow up, like calves of the 
stall." 

Right, Sin! your text I'll prove it true, 

Though heretics may laugh: 
For instance : i here's yourscl' just now, 

God knows, an' unco calf! 
An' should some patron be so kind, 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 



But, if the lover's raptur'd hour 

Shall ever be your lot, 
Forbid it, everv heavenly power, 

You e'er should be a stot ! 
Tho', when some kind, connubial dear, 

Your but-and-ben adorns, 
The like has been that you may wear 

A noble head of horns. 
And in your Ills', most reverend James, 

To hear you roar and rowte, 
Few men b' sense will doubt your claims 

To rank ainang the nowte. 
And when ye're number'd wi' the dead, 

Below a grassy hillock, 
Wi' justice they may mark your head— 

'Here lies a famous bullock!' 



ADDRESS TO THE DEIL. 
O Prince ! Oh chief of many throned pow'rs, 
That led the embattled Seraphim to war. 

—Milton. 



O thou! whatever title suit thee, 
Auld Hornie, Satan, .Nick, or Clootie, 
Wha in yon cavern grim an' sootie, 

Closed under hatches, 
Spairges about the brunstane cootie, 

To scaud poor wretches ! 

Hear me, auld Hangie, for a wee, 
An' let poor damned bodies be: 
I'm sure sma' pleasure it can gie, 

E'en to a deil, 
To skelp an' scaud poor dogs like mc, 

An' hear us squecl ! 
Great is thy pow'r, an' great thy fame ; 
Far ken'd and noted is thy name ; 
An' tho' yon lowin' heugh's thy name, 

Thou travels far; 
An' faith ! thou's neither lag nor lame, 

Nor blate nor scaur. 

Whyles, ranging like a roarin' lion, 
For prey, a' holes and corners tryin'; 
Whyles on the stroim-winir \l tempest flyin', 

Tirlin" the kirks ; 
Whyles, in the human bosom pryin', 
Unseen thon lurks." 

I've heard my reverend grannie say, 
In lanely glens you like to stray ; 
Or where auld ruin'd castles gray, 

Nod to the moon, 
Yc fright the nightly wand rcr's way, 

Wi' eldritch croon. 

When twilight did my grannie summon, 

To say her prayers, douce, honest woman ! 

Aft yont the dyke she's heard you bummin', 

Wi' eerie drone; 
Or, rustlin", thro' the boortries cornin', 

Wi' heavy groan. 
Ae dreary, windy, winter night. 
The stars shot down wi" sklentin' light, 
Wi' you, mysel", I gat a fright, 

A yont the lough: 
Ye, like a rash-bush stood in sight, 

Wi' waving sough. 
The cudgel in my nieve did shake, 
Each bristl',1 hair" stood like a stake, 
When wi' an eldritch stour. quaick— quaick— 

Amang the springs, 
Awa ye squatter'd like a drake. 

On whistling wings. 
Let warlocks prim, an" wither'd hags. 
Tell how wi' you, on ragweed nags, 



They skim the muirs. and dizzy crags, 

Wi' wicked speed; 
And in kirk-yards renew their leagues, 

Owre howkit dead. 
Thence countra wives, wi' toil an' pain, 
May plunge and plunge the kirn in vain: 
For, oh ! the yellow treasure's ta'en 

By witching skill : 
An" dawtit, twal-pint Hawkie's gaen 

As yeld's the bUl. 

Thence mystic knots mak great abuse, 
On young guidman, fond, keen, an' crouse; 
When the best wark-lume i' the house. 

By cantrip wit, 
Is instant made no worth a louse, 

Just at the hit. 

When thowes dissolve the snawy hoord, 
An' float the jinglin' icy-boord, 
Then water-kelpies haunt the foord, 

By your direction, 
An' nightcd travelers are allured 

To their destruction. 

An' aft your moss-traversing Spunkics 
Decoy the wight that late and drunk is : 
The bleezin", curst, mischievous monkeys 

Delude his eyes, 
Till in some miry slough he sunk is, 
NVer mair to rise. 

When masons' mystic word an' grip, 
In storm an' tempests raise you up. 
Some cock or cat your rage maun stop, 

Or, strange to tell ; 
The voungest brother ye wad whip 

Aff straught to hell ! 

Lanp syne, in Eden's bonnie yard, 
When youthfu' lovers first were pair'd, 
An' all* the soul of love they shared, 

The raptured hour, 
Sweet on the fragrant flowery swaird 

In shady bower : 
Then you. ye auld, snec-drawing dog ! 
Ye came to Paradise inco?, 
An' played on man a cursed brogue, 

(Black be your fa" !) 
An' gied the infant world a shog, 

'Maist ruined a'. 

D'ye mind that day. when in a bizz, 
Wi' reekit duds, and reestit gizz, 
Ye did present your smootie phiz 

'Alang better folk, 
An* sklented on the man of Uz 

Y'our spitefu' joke? 
An' how ye gat him i' your thrall. 
An' brak him out o house an' hall, 
While scabs and blotches did him gall, 

Wi' bitter claw. 
An' lowsed his ill tongued wicked scawl, 

Was warst ava 'i 

But a' your doings to rehearse. 
Your wily snares an' fechtin' fierce. 
Sin' that day Michael^ did you pierce, 

Down to this time, 
Wad ding a Lallan tongue, or Erse, 
In prose or rhyme. 

An' now, auld Cloots, I ken ye're thinkin", 
A certain Bardie's ran tin', drinkin'. 
Some luckless hour will send him linkin', 

To your black pit ; 
But faith: he'll turn a corner, jinkin', 

And cheat you yet. 

But, fare ye weel, auld Nickie-benl 
O wad ye tak a thought and men' 1 
Ye aibl'ius might— I dinna ken- 
Still hae a stake— 
I'm wae to think upon yon den, 
Even for your sake ! 



12 BURNS' POETIC 

THE DEATH AND DYING WORDS OF POOR 

MAILIE, THE AUTHOR'S ONLY PET 

YO WE. 

AM UNTO MOURNFtr" TALE. 
As Mailic. an' her lambs thcgithcr, 
Were ae clay nibbling on the tether. 
Upon her cfoot she coost a hitch. 
An' owre she warsled in the ditch : 
There. groaning, dying, she did lie, 
When Htighoc?! he came doytin by. 

Wi' glowrin' een, and lifted han's, 
Poor Hughoc like a statue Stan's : 
He saw her days were near-hand ended, 
Bnt wae's my heart ! he could no mend it! 
He gaped wide, but naething spak! 
At length poor Mailie silew.ee brak. 

' O thou, whose lamentable face 
Appears to mourn my waefu' case ! 
My dying words attentive hear, 
An' bear them to my Master dear. 

! Tell him, if e'er again he keep 
As muckle gear as buy a sheep, 
O, bid him never tie them mair 
Wi' wicked strings o" hemp or hair! 
Butca' them out to park or hill, 
An' let them wander at their will : 
.So may his flock increase, an' grow 
To scores o' lambs, an' packs o' woo' ! 

' Tell him, he was a master kin', 
An' aye guid to me an' mine : 
An' now my dying charge I gie him, 
My helpless lambs I trust them wi' him. 

'0 bid him save their harmless lives, 
Frae dogs, an' tods, an' butchers' knives ! 
Put gie them guid cow milk their fill, 
Till they be fit to fend themsel' ; 
An' tent them duly, e'en an' morn, 
Wi' teats o' hay an' rips o' corn. 

' An' may they never learn the gates, 
Of ither vile, wanrestfu' pets! 
To slink thro' slaps, an' reave an' steal, 
At stacks o' pease, or stocks o' kail. 
So may they, like their great forbears, 
For mouy a year come thro' the shears: 
So wives will gie them bits o' bread, 
An' bairns greet for them when they're dead. 

' My poor toop-lamb, my son an' heir, 

bid him breed him up wi' care! 
An' if he live to be a beast, 

To pit some havins in his breast ! 
An' warn him, what I winna name, 
To stay content with yowes at hame ; 
An' no to rin an' wear his cloots, 
Like ither menseless, graceless, brutes. 

'An' neist my yowie, silly thing, 
Guid keep thee from a tether string ! 
O, may thou ne'er forgather up 
Wi' only blastit. moorland toop: 
Put aye keep mind to moop an' mell 
Wi' sheep o' credit like thysel'! 

'An' now, my bairns, wi' my last breath, 

1 lea'e my blessing wi' you baith ; 
An' when you think up'o' your mither, 
Mind to-be kin' to ane anither. 

'Now, honost Hughoc, dinna fail 
To tell mv master a' mv tale ; 
An' bid him burn this cursed tether. 
An', for thy pains, thou'se getmv blether ' 

This said, poor .Mailie turn'd her head, 
And closed her een amang the dead. 



AL WORKS. 

POOR MAILIE S ELEGY. 
Lament in rhyme, lament in prose, 
Wi' saut tears trickling down your nose ; 
Our bardie's fate is at a close, 
Past a' remead ; 
The last sad cape-stane o' his woes ; 
Poor Mailie's dead ! 

It's no' the loss o' warl's gear 
That could sae bitter draw the tear, 
Or male our bardie, dowie, wear 

The mourning weed : 
He's lost a friend and neebonr dear, 

In Mailie dead. 
Thro' a' the town she trotted by him ! 
A lang half-mile she could descry him ; 
Wi' kindly bleat, when she did spy him, 

She ran wi' speed ; 
A friend mair faithfu' ne'er cam nigh him 

Than Mailie dead. 
I wat she was a sheep o' sense, 
An' could behave hersel' wi' mense : 
I'll say't she never brak a fence, 

Thro' thievish greed. 
Our bardie, lanely. keeps the spencc 

Sin' Mailie's dead. 

Or, if he wanders up the howe, 
Her living image in her yowe, 
Comes bleating to him, owre the knowe, 

For bits o' bread ; 
An" down the briny pearls rowe 

For Mailie dead. 

She was nae get o' moorland tips, 
"Wi' tawted ket, an' hairy hips: 
For her forbears were brought in ships 

Frae yont the Tweed ! 
A bonnier flesh ne'er cross'd the clips 

Than Mailie dead. 

Wae worth the man who first did shape 
That vile, wanchancie thing— a rape ! 
Itmaks guid fellows grin an' gape, 

Wi' chokin' dread ; 
An' Robin's bonnet wave wi' crape, 
For Mailie dead. 

O, a' ye bards on bonnie Doon ! 
An' wha on Ayr your chaunters tune ! 
Come, join the melancholious croon 

O 1 Robin's reed ! 

His heart will never get aboon 

His Mailie dead. 



TO JAMES SMITH. 
' Friendship! mysterious cement of the soul! 
Sweet'ner of life, and solder of society! 
I owe thee much!' Blair. 



Dear Smith, the sleest. paukie thief, 
That e'er attempted stealth or rief, 
Ye surely has some warlock-breef 

Owre human hearts; 
For never a bosom yet was prief 

Against your arts. 

For me, I swear by sun an' moon, 
And every star that blinks aboon, 
Ye'vc cost me twenty pair o' shoon, 

Just gaun to see you : 
And every ither pair that's done, 

Mair ta'en I'm wi' you. 

That auld capricious carlin, Nature, 
To mak amends for serimpit stature, 
She's turn'd you aff, a human creature 



And in her frei 



Phn 



TO JAMES SMITH. 



Just now I've taen the fit o' rhyme, 
My Dannie noddle's working prune, 
My fancy yerkit up sublime 

WT hasty summon ; 
Hae ye a leisure moments time 

To hear what's comin' ? 

Some rhyme a neebour's name to lash ; 
Some rhyme (vain thought !) for needfu' cash ; 
Some rhyme to court the countra clash, 

An' raise a din ; 

For me, an aim I never fash: 

I rhyme for fun. 

The star that rules my luckess lot, 
Has fated me the russet coat. 
An' damned my fortune to the groat: 

But in requit, 
Has bless'd me wi' a random shot 
O countra wit. 

This while my notion's ta'en a sklent, 
To try my fate in guid black prent : 
But still the mair I'm that way bent, 

Something cries ' Hoolie ! 
I red vou, honest man, taktent: 

Ye'll shaw your folly. 

'There's ither poets, much your betters, 
Far seen in Greek, deep menV letters. 
Hae thought they had ensured their debtors 

A' future ages; 
Xow moths deform in shapeless tatters, 

Their unknown pages.' 

Then fareweel hopes o' laurel-boughs, 
To garland my poetic brows ! 
Henceforth I'll rove where busy ploughs 

Are whistling timing, 
An' teach the lanely heigbts an' howes 

My rustic sang. 

I'll wander on. with tentless heed 
How never-halting moments speed. 
Till fate shall snap" the brittle thread: 

Then, all unknown, 
I'll lay me with th' inglorious dead, 

Forgot and gone : 

But why o' death begin a tale ? 
Just now we're living, sound an' hale, 
Then top and maintop crowd the sail, 

Heave care o'er side ! 
And large, before enjoyment's gale, 

Let's tak' the tide. 
This life, sae far's I understand, 
Is a' enchanted fairy land, 
Where pleasure is the magic wand, 

That, wielded right, 
Make hours like minutes, hand in hand, 

Dance by fu' light. 
The magic-wand then let us wield : 
For, ance that five-an'-forty's speel'd, 
See crazy, weary, joyless e'ild, 

Wi"' wrinkled face. 
Comes hostin'. hirplin', owre the field, 

Wi' creepin' pace. 
When ance life's day draws near the gloamin 
Then fareweel vacant careless roainin"; 
An' fareweel cheerfu' tankards foainiif , 

An' social noise ; 
An' fareweel dear, deluding woman! 

The joy of joys! 

O Life ! how pleasant in thy morning 

Young Fancy's rays the hills "adorning!' 

Cold pausing ( 'aution's lesson scorning. 

We frisk away, 
Like school-boys, at the expected warning. 

To joy and play. 
We wander there, we wander here, 
We eye the rose upon the brier. 



Unmindful that the thorn is neai 1 , 

Amang the leaves: 
And though the puny wound appear, 

Shart while it grieves. 

Some, lucky, find a flowery spot, 
For which they never toiled nor swat, 
They drink the sweet and eat the fat, 

But care or pain ; 
And, haply, eye the barren hut 

With high disdain. 

With steady aim, some Fortune chase ; 
Keen Hope does every sinew brace : 
Thro' fair, thro' foul, they urge the race, 

And seize the prey: 
Then cannie, in some cozie place, 

They close the day. 

An' others, like your humble servan'. 
Poor wights ! nae rules, or roads observin' ; 
To right or left, eternal swervin', 

They zig-zag on; 
Till curst wi' age, obscure an" starvin', 
They aften groan. 

Alas! what bitter toil an" strainin— 
But truce with peevish poor complaining! 
Is Fortune's fickle Luna waning t 

E'en let her gang! 
Beneath what light she has remaining, 

Let's sing our sang. 

My pen I here fling to the door. 
And kneel. • Ye l'ow'rs !' and warm implore. 
Tho' I should wander Terra o'er, 

In all her climes. 
Grant me but this, I ask no more, 

Aye rowth o' rhymes. 

' Gie dreeping roasts to countra lairds, 
Till icicles hing frae their beards : 
Gie fine braw does to fine life-guards. 

An' maids of honour! 
An' yill an' whisky gie to cairds, 

L T ntil they sconner. 
'A title, Dempster^ merits it; 
A garter gie to Willie Pitt: 
Gie wealtii to some be-ledger'd cit, 

In cent, per cent. 
But give me real, and sterling wit, 

An' I'm content. 

' While ye are pleased to keep me hale, 
I'll sit down o'er mv seantv meal, 
Be't water-brose,or muslin-kail, 

Wi' cheerfu" face, 
As lang's the Muses dinna fail 

To say the grace.' 
An' anxious e'e I never throws 
Behint my lug, or by my nose ; 
I jonk beneath misfortune's blows, 

As well's I mav: 
Sworn foe to sorrow, care, an' prose, 

In rhyme away. 
' O ye douse folk, that live bv rule. 
Grave, tideless-blooded, calm and coo!, 
Compar'd wi' you— O fool ! fool ! fool ! 

How much unlike ! 
Your hearts are just a standing pool, 

Your lives, a dyke! 

Xae bair-brain'd sentimental traces 
In your nnletter'd nameless faces! 
In drioso trills and graces 

Y'e never stray. 
But gravissimo. solemn basses 

Y'e hum away. 

Ye are sae grave, nae doubt ye're wise, 
Xae ferly tho' ye do despise 
The hairnm-scairum, ram-stam bovs, 

The rattlin' squad: 
I see yott upward cast your eyes— 

Y'e ken the road — 



Whilst r-btit t sliail hand an 

WT v.m 1 scarce gaugoiiy whc 
Thou, Jamie, I sliail say nae in 

But quat inj- sang 
Content wi' you to mak a pair, 

Whare'er I gang. 



A DKEAM. 

'Thoughts, words, and deeds, the statute blames 

with reason; 
But surely dreams were ne'er indicted treason.' 

[On reading, in the public papers, the Lain-eate's 
Ode with the other parade of June 4, 178(5, the 
author was no sooner dropt asleep, than he 
imagined himself transported to the birth-day 
levee; and in his dreaming fancy, made the 
f olio w i n g A ddress. ] 

Guid-morn'in' to your Majesty! 

May heaven augment your blisses, 
On every new birth-day ye see, 

A humble poet wishes ! 
My barkshiphere, at your levee, 

On sic a day as this 'is, 
Is sure an uncouth sight to see, 

Amany the birth-day dresses 
Sae fine this day. 

I see ye're complimented thrang, 

By mony a lord an' lady, 
li God save the King!" 's a cuckoo sang 
That's unco easy said aye ; 
The poets, too, a venal gang. 

Wi' rhymes weel tnrn'd an' ready, 
Wad gar yon trow ye ne'er do wra'ng, 
But aye, unerring steady, 
On sic a day. 

in. 
For me! before a monarch's face, 

Ev'n there I winna flatter ; 
For neither pension, post, nor place, 

Am I your humble debtor: 
So, nae reflection on your grace, 

Your kingship to bespatter: 
There's mohie waur been o' the race, 

An' aiblins anc been better 

Than you this day. 

IV. 

Tis vervtrue, mv sov'reign king 

My skill mar well be doubted: 
But facts are chiels that winna ding 

An downa be disputed: 
Your royal nest. w beneath your wing, 

Is e'en right reft an' clouied, 
An" now tlie third part o' the string, 

An less, will gang about it 
Than did ae day. 



But faith! 1 muckle doubt 
Ye've trusted ministrati 

To chaps, wlia. in a barn o 
Wad better flll'd their st 



ihkns' poetical wolds'. 

J there— • 



['ill 



:• ha 



itioii d«.. 



:ece, 



(iod, my life's a lease 
Nae bargain wearing faster. 
Or, faith! 1 fear, that wi' the geese, 
I shortly boost to pasture 

1' the craft some day. 



no mistrusting Willie Pitt* 
hen taxes he enlarges. 
An' Will's a true guid fallow's get. 



lot e 



spa 



That he intends to pay your debt, 
An' lessen a' your charges ; 

But God sake ! let nae saving lit 

Abridge your bonnie barges^ 

An' boats this day 



Adieu, my Liege ! may freedom geek 

Beneath your high protection \ 
An' may ye rax Corruption's neck, 

An' gie her for dissection ! 
But since I'm hore, I'll no neglect, 

In loyal, true affection, 
To pay your Queen, with due respect, 

My fealty an' subjection 

This great birth-day. 



Hail, Majesty Most Excellent! 

While nobles strive to please ye, 
Will ye accept a compliment 

A simple poet gies ye 'i 
Thae bonnie bairntime, Heav'n has lent, 

Still higher may they heeze ye, 
In bliss, till fate someday is sent, 

For ever to release ye 

Frae care that day. 



For von, voting potentate o' Wales, 

I tell your Highness fairly, 
.Down pleasure's stream, wi' swelling sails, 

I'mtauld ye're driving rarely: 
Knt some day ye may gnaw your nails, 

An' curse your folly sairly, 
That e'er ye brak Diana's pales, 

Or rattl'd dice wi' Charlie, 
By night or day. 



Yet aft a ragged cowte's been known 

To mak a noble aiver : 
So. ve may doucelv fill a throne, 

For a' their clish-ma-claver : 
There, him« at Agincourt wha shone, 

Few better were or braver ; 
And yet avI" funny queer Sir Jobn,-«c 

He'was an unco shaver 

For monie a day. 



For you, right rev'rend Osnabnrg 
Xanc sets the lawn-sleeve swee 

Altho' a ribbon at your lug- 
Wad been a dress completer: 

As ye disown yon paughty dog 
That bears the keys of Peter, 

Then, swith! an' get a wife to hui 

Or, troth! ye'll stain the mitre 

Some luckless day. 

XIII. 
Young royal Tarry Brceks.-is i ion 

Ye've lately eoiiie athwart her; 
A glorious galley^ stem an' stern, 

Weel rigg'd for Venus' barter: 
But first bang out, that she'll disc 

Your hymeneal charter 
Then hea've aboard your grapple a 

An' large upo' her quarter. 

Come full that day. 



Ye, lastly, bonnie blossoms a' 
Ye rov'al lasses dainty, 

Ileav'n'make you guid as 
An' gie you lads a-plent 



-eel ; 



THE VlStoft 



iilit sneer lia Bvftlsh boys awa ; 

For king-* are lined scant iiye ; 
An' German gentles are but sum', 

They're better just than want aye 
On ony day. 
xv 
God bless you a'! consider now^ 

Ye're unco muckle dautet : 
But, ere the course o' life be through 

It may be bitter sautet ; 
An' I hac seen their coggie fou, 

That yet hae tarrow't at it ; 
But or the day was done, I trow, 

The laggen they hae clautet 
Fu' clean that day. 



THE VISION. 

DUAN FIRST.50 

The sun had closed the winter day, 
The curlers quat llieir roaring play, 
An hunger'd maukin ta'en her way 

To kail-yards green. 
While faithless snaws ilk step betray 

Whare she has been. 

The thresher's weary flingin'-tree 
Tlie lee-lang day had tired me. 
And whan tlie day had closed his c'c, 

Far i" tlie west, 
Ben i' the spence, right pensivelie, 

I gaed to rest. 

There, lanely, by the ingle-cheek, 
I sat and ey'd the spewing reek. 
That rill'd wi' lmast-provokim.' smeek, 

The auld clay biggin'; 
An' heard the restless rattens squeak 
About the riggin'. 

All in this mottie, misty clime, 
I backward mus'd on wasted time. 
How I had spent my youthfu' prime, 

An' done nae -thing, 
But stringin' blethers up in rhyme, 

For fools to sing. 

Had I to.guid advice but hark it, 
I might, by this, hue led a market, 
Or strutted in a bank and clarkit 

My cash account : 
While here, halt-mad. half-fed, half-sarkit, 

Is a' th' amount. 

I started, mutt'ring. blockhead! coof ! 
And heav'd on high my waukit loof, 
To swear by a' yon starry roof, 
Or some rash aith. 
That I, henceforth, would be rhyme-proof 
Till my last breath— 

When click! the string the sneck did draw; 
An' jce ! the door gaed to the wa' ; 
An' by my ingle-lowe I saw. 

Now bleezin' bright, 
A tight outlandish hizzie, braw, 

Come full in sight. 
Ye nccdna doubt. I held mv whisht : 
Tlie infant aith. half-form'd. was crush't; 
1 glowr'd as eerie's I'd been duslit 

In some wild glen : 
When sweet, like modest worth, she blusht, 

And steppit ben. 
Green, slender, leaf-clad holly-boughs, 
Were twisted grac-efu' round her brows; 
I took her for some Scottish Muse 

By that same token; 
An' come to stop those reckless vows, 

Would soon been broken. 



A wildly-witty, rustic grade 

Shone full upon her; 

Her eye, ev'n turn'd on empty space, 

Beam'd keen with honour. 
Down flow'd her robe, a tartan sheen, 

Till half a leg was scrimply seen ; 

And such a leg! my bonnie Jean 
Could only peer it: 



Her mantle large of greenish hue, 
My gazing wonder chiefly drew ; 
Dee)) lights and shades, both mingling, threw 

A lustre grand : 
And seem'd to my astonish'd view, 

A well-known land. 

Here, rivers in the sea were lost : 
There, mountains to the skies were tost ; 
Here, tumbling billows mark'd the coast, 

With surging foam ; 
There, distant shone Art's lofty boast, 
The lordly dome. 

Here, Doon pour'd down his far-fetch'd floods: 
There, well-fed Irwine stately thuds: 
Auld hermit Ayr staw thro' his woods, 

On to the shore, 
And many a lesser torrent scuds, 

With seeming roar. 

Low, in a sandy valley spread, 
An ancient borough rear'd her head ; 
Still, as in Scottish story read. 

She boasts a race, 
To every nobler virtue bred, 

And polish'd grace. 
By stately tow'r or palace fair. 
Or ruins pendent in the air, 
Bold stems of heroes, here and there, 

I could discern; 
Some seem'd to muse, some seem'd to dare, 

With feature stern. 

My heart did glowing transport feel. 
To see a race^i heroic wheel, 
And bandish round the deep-dy'd steel 

In sturdy blows; 
While back-recoiling seem'd to reel 

Their southron foes. 
His Country's Saviocr, 5 2 mark ltiua well ! 
Hold Richardton's-^ heroic swell: 
The chief on Sark 5 ^ who glorious fell, 

In high command: 
And he whom ruthless fates expel 

His native land. 
There, where a sceptred Pietish shade" 
Stalk'd round his ashes lowly laid, 
I inark'd a martial race, portray'd 

In colours strong: 
Bold, soldier-featur'd, undisinay'd 

They strode along. 
Thro' many a wild, romantic grove, 5 ** 
Near many a hermit-fancy' d cove, 
(Fit haunts for friendship or for love 

In musing mood.) 
An aged Judge, I saw him rove, 

Dispensing good. 
With deep-struck reverential awe, 
The learned sire and son 1 saw. a: 
To Nature's God and Nature's law 

They gave their lore. 
This, all its source and end to draw. 

That, to adore. 

Brvdone's brave ward 58 I well could spy, 
Beneath old Scotia's smiling eye : 
Who call'd on Fame, low standing by, 

To hand him on. 
Where many a patriot-name on high, 

And hero shone. 



BURKS' POETICAL WORKS. 



T>U.\X SECOND. 

With rousing-deep, astonish'd stare, 
I view'd the heav'nly seeming fair; 
A whisp'ring throb did witness bear, 

Of kindred sweet, 
When with an elder sister's air 

She did me greet. 

'All hail ! my own inspired bard ! 
In me thy native muse regard! 
2s' or longer mourn thy fate is hard, 



As we bestow. 
' Know, the great genius of this land 
Has many a light, aerial band, 
Who, all beneath his high command, 

Harmoniously, 
As arts or arms they understand, 

Their labours ply. 
'They Scotia's race among them share; 
Some tire the soldier on to dare; 
Some rouse the patriots up to bare 

Corruption's heart ; 
Some teach the bard a darling care, 

The tuneful art. 

' r\Iong swelling floods of reeking gore, 
They, ardent, kindling spirits pour; 
Or, 'mid the venal senate's roar, 

They, sightless, stand, 
To mend the honest patriot-lore, 

And grace the hand. 

'And when the bard or hoary sage, 
Charm or instruct the future age, 
They bind the wild poetic rage 

In energy, 
Or point the inconclusive page 

Full on the eye. 

' Hence Fullarton. the brave and young; 
Hence Dempster's zeal-inspired tongue; 
Hence sweet harmonious Beattie sung 

His "Minstrel" lays; 
Or tore, with noble ardour stung, 

The sceptic's bays. 

'To lower order's are assign'd 
The humbler ranks of human-kind, 
The rustic bard, the lab'ring hind, 

The artisan ; 
All choose, as various they're inclin'd 

The various man. 

• When yellow waves the heavy grafo, 
The threat'ning storm some strongly rein ; 
Some teach to meliorate the plain, 

With tillage-skill ; 
And some instruct the sheperd-train, 
Blithe o'er the hill. 

' Some hint the lover's harmless wile ; 
Some grace the maiden's artless smile; 
Some soothe the lab'rer's weary toil 

For humble gains, 
And make his cottage scenes beguile 

His cares and pains. 

' Some, bounded to a district-space, 
Explore at large man's infant race, 
The mark the embryotic trace 

Of rustic bard ; 
And careful note each op'ning grace, 
A guide and guard. 

' Of these am I— Coila my name ; 
And this district us mine 1 claim. 
Where once the Campbells, chiefs of fame, 

Held ruling pow'r, 
I mark'd thy embryo tuneful flame, 

Thy natal hour. 

'With future hope, I oft would gaze, 
Foud oil thy little early ways, 



Thy rudely caroll'd chiming phrase) 

h\ uncouth rhymes, 
Fired at the simple artless lays 

Of other times. 

' I saw thee seek the sounding shore, 
Delighted with the dashing roar; 
Or when the north his fleecy store 

Drove thro' the sky, 
I saw grim Xature's visage hoar 

Struck thy young ej-e. 

' Or when the deep-green mantled earth 
Warm cherish'd ev'ry flow'ret's birth, 
And joy and music pouring forth 

In ev'ry grove, 
I saw thee eye the general mirth 

With boundless love. 

' When ripen'd fields, and azure skies, 
Called forth the reaper's rustling noise, 
I saw thee leave their evening joys, 

And lonely stalk, 
To vent thy bosom's swelling rise, 
In pensive walk. 

'When youthful love, warm-blushing, strong, 
Keen-shivering shot thv nerves along, 
Those accents, graceful to thy tongue, 

Th' adorned name, 
I taught thee how to pour in song, 

To soothe thy flame. 

' I saw thy pulse's maddening play. 
Wild send thee pleasure's devious way, 
Misled by fancy's meteor ray, 

By passion driven; 
But yet the light that led astray 

Was light from heaven. 

' I taught thy manners-painting strains, 
The loves, the ways of simple swains, 
Till now, o'er all my wide domains 

Thy fame extends ; 
And some, in pride of Coda's plains, 

Become thy friends. 

' Thou canst not learn, nor can I show, 
To paint with Thomson's landscape glow ; 
Or wake the bosom-smelting throe, 

With Shenstone's art; 
Or pour, with Gray, the moving flow 

Warm on the heart. 

' Yet all beneath th' nnrivall'd rose, 
The lowly daisy sweetly blows: 
Tho' large the forest's monarch throws 

His army shade, 
Yet green the juicy hawthorn grows, 
Adown the glade. 

' Then never murmur nor repine ; 
Strive in thy humble sphere to shine ; 
And trust me, not Potosi's mine, 
Nor kings' regard. 
Can give a bliss o'ermatching thine, 
A rustic Bard. 

' To give my counsels all in one, 
Thy tuneful flame still careful fan; 
Preserve the dignity of man, 
With soul erect; 
And trust, the Universal Plan 
Will all protect. 

' And wear thou this.'— she solemn said, 
And bound the holly round my head ; 
The polish'd leaves, and berries red. 

Did rustling play ; 
And, like a passing thought, "she fled 



In 



ight away. 



TAJSl SAMSON'S ELEGY. 



ADDRESS TO THE UNCO GUID OR THE 
RIGIDLY RIGHTEOUS. 

' Mr son, these maxims make a rule, 

And lump them aye thegither ; 
The Rigid Righteous is a fool, 

The Rigid Wise anither ; 
The cleanest corn that e'er was dight 

May liae some pyles o' caff in ; 
Sae ne'er a fellow-creature slight 

For random fits o' daffln.— ' 

Solomon. — Eccles. ch. Yii. ver. 1G. 



i. 

O te wha are sae gnid yoursel" 

Sae pious and sae holy, 
Ye've nought to do but mark and tell! 

Your neebour's fauts and folly 
"Who life is like a weel-gaun mill, 

Supplied wi' store o' water, 
The heapit happier's ebbing still, 

And still the clap plays clatter. 

ii. 
Hear me, ye venerable core, 

As counsel for poor mortals, 
That frequent pass douce Wisdom's door" 

For glaiket Folly's portals ; 
I, for their thoughtless, careless sakes, 

Would here propose defences. 
Their donsie tricks, their black mistakes, 

Their failings and mischances. 

in. 
Ye see your state wi' theirs compared, 

And shudder at the niffer. 
But cast a moment's fair regard, 

What makes the mighty differ? 
Discount what scant occasion gave 



Your better art o' hidiiV. 



Think, when your castigated pulse 

Giesnow arid then a wallop, 
What ratings must his veins convuke. 

That still eternal gallop; 
Wi' wind and tide fair i' your tail, 

Right on ye scud your sea-way ; 
But in the teeth o' baith to sail, 

It maks an unco lee-way. 



See social life and glee sit down, 

All joyous and unthinking, 
Till, quite transmogrified, they're grown 

Debauchery and drinking: 
O would they stay to calculate 

Th' eternal" consequences : 
Or your more dreaded hell to state, 

Damnation of expenses! 



Ye high, exalted, virtuous dames, 

Ty'd up in godly laces. 
Before ye gie poor frailty names, 

Suppose a change o' cases; 
A dear lov'd lad. convenience snug, 

A treacherous inclination — 
But, let me whisper i' your lug, 

Ye 're aiblins nae temptation. 

VII. 

Then gently scan your brother man, 

Still gentler sister woman ; 
Tho' they may gang a kennin wrang, 

To step aside is human; 
One point must still be greatly dark 

The moving ichii they do it ; 
And just as lamely can ye mark 

How far perhaps they rue it. 



VIII. 

Who made the heart, 'tis He alone 

Decidedly can try us, 
He knows each cord— its various tone, 

Each spring— its various bias : 
Then at the balance let's be mute, 

We never can adjust it ; 
What's done we partly may compute, 

But know not what's resisted. 



TAM SAMSON'S59 ELEGY. 

" An honest man's the noblest work of God." 
Pope. 

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the deil? 
Or great M'Kinlay60 thrawn his heel? 
Or Robertson^ again grown weel 

To preach an' read? 
' Na, waur than a" !' cries ilka chiel, 

'Tarn Samson's dead !' 

Kilmarnock lang may grunt an' granc, 
An' sigh, an' sab, an' greet her lane. 
An' deed her bairns, man, wife, and wean, 

In mourning weed ; 
To death, she's dearly paid the kane, 

Tarn Samson's dead! 

The brethren of the mystic level. 
May hing their head in woefu' bevel. 
While by their nose the tears will revel, 

Like ony bead ! 
Death's gien the lodge an unco devel, 

Tarn Samson's dead ! 
When winter muffles up his cloak, 
And binds the mire up like a rock; 
When to the lochs the curlers flock, 

Wi' gleesome speed: 
Wha will thev station at the cock? 

Tam Samson's dead! 

He was the king o' a' the core, 
To guard, or draw, or wick a bore, 
Or up the rink, like Jehu roar, 

In time o' need; 
But now he lags on death's hog-scorc, 
Tain Samson's dead ! 

Now- safe the stately sawmont sail, 
And trout s bedropp'd wi' crimson hail, 
And eels well kenn'd for souple tail, 

And geds for greed, 
Since dark in death's fish-creel we Avail, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 
Rejoice, ye birring paitricks a' : 
Ye cootie rhoorcocks, crousely craw ; 
Ye maukins. cock vour fud fu' braw, 

Without en dread; 
Your mortal fae is now awa', 

Tam Samson's dead! 
That waefu' morn be ever mourn'd. 
Saw him in shootin' graith adorn'd 
While pointers round impatient burn'd 

Frae couples freed ! 
But, och ! he gaed and ne'er return'd ! 

Tam Samson's dead ! 

In vain auld age his body batters; 
In vain the gout his ancles fetters : 
In vain the burns came down like waters 

An acre braid ! 
2sow ev'ry auld wife greetin'. clatters, 

Tam Samson's dead! 
Owre mony a weary hag he limpit, 
An' aye the tither shot he thnmpet, 
Till coward death behind him jumpit, 

Wi' deadly feide; 
Now he proclaims wi' tout o' trumpet, 

Tam Samson's dead! 



18 BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 

When at his heart he felt the dagger, 
lie redd his wonted bottle-swagger, 
But yet he drew the mortal trigger 

Wi' Tjrcel-aim'd heed ; 
'L— d, Ave !' he cry'd, an' owre did stagger; 

Tam Samson's dead! 



Ilk hoary hunter mourn'd a brithcr; 
Ilk sportsman youth bemoan'd a farther ; 
Yon auld grey stane, amang the heather. 

Marks out his head, 
Whare Burns has wrote, in rhyming blether, 
Tam Samson's dead! 
There low he lies, in lasting rest; 
Perhaps upon his mould'ring breast 
Some spitef u' muirfowl bigs her nest, 

To hetch an' breed; 
Alas! nae mair he'll them molest! 
Tam Samson's dead. 
When August winds the heather wave, 
And sportsmen wander by yon grave, 
Three volleys let his memory crave 

O" pouther an' lead, 
Till Echo answer frae her cave, 

Tam Samson's dead ! 
Ileav'n rest his saul, whare'er he be ! 
Is th' wish o' mony mae than me : 
He had twa fants, or may be three, 
Yet what remead ? 
Ae social, honest man want we : 
Tam Samson's dead! 

THE EPITAPH. 

Tam Samson's weel-worn clay here lies, 

Ye canting zealots, spare him! 
If honest worth in heaven rise, 

Ye'll mend or ye win near him. 

PER CONTRA. 

Go, Fame, and canter like a filly 
Thro' a' the streets an' neuks o' Killie,s2 
Telle very social, honest billie, 

To cease his grievin', 
For yet, unskaith'd by death's gleg gullie, 

Tam Samson's livin'. 



HALLO WEEN. C3 

[The following poem will, by many readers, be 
well enough understood; but for the sake of 
those who are unacquainted with the manners 
and traditions of the country where the scene 
is cast, notes are added, to give some account 
of the principal charms and spells of that 



ing into futurity makes a striking part of the 
history of human nature in its rude state, in 
all ages and nations; and it maybe some en- 
tertainment to a philosophic mind, if any such 
should honour the author with a perusal, to 
see the remains of it among the more unen- 
lightened in our own ] 

'Yes! let the rich deride, the poor disdain, 
The simple pleasures of the lowly train ; 
To me more dear, congenial to my heart. 
One native charm, than all the gloss of art.' 

— Goldsmith. 

Upon that night, wlied fairies light, 

On Cassilis J>owiian*';i dance. 
Or owre the lays, in splendid blaze, 

On sprightly coursers prance ; 
Or for Oolzean the route is ta'cn. 

Beneath the moon's pale beams! 
There, up the covers to stray an rove 

Amang the. rocks and streams, 
To .sport that night. 



ii. 



Amang the bonnie winding banks 

Where Boon rins, wimplin', clear, 
Where Brucesu ance rul'd the martial ranks, 

And shook his Caraick spear, 
Some merry, friendly, countra folks, 

Together did convene, 
To burn their nits, an' pou their stocks, 

An' haud their Halloween, 

Fu' blithe that night. 

in. 
The lasses feat, an' cleanly neat, 

Mair braw than when their fine: 
Their faces blithe, fu' sweetly kythc 

Hearts leal, an' warm, an kin' : 
The lads sae trig, wi' wooer-babs, 

Weel knotted on their garten, 
Some unco blate, an' some wi' gabs, 

Gar lasses' hearts gang startin' 
• Whyles fast at night. 



Then first and foremost through the kail 

Their stocks**" maun a' be sought ance 
They stick their een. an' graip, an' wale, 

For muckle anes and straught anes. 
Poor hav'rel Will fell aff the drift. 

An' wander'd thro' the bow-kail, 
An' pon't, for want o' better shift, 

A runt w T as like a sow-tail, 

Sac bow't that night. 

v. 

Then, straught or crooked, yird ornane, 

They roar an' cry a' throu'ther; 
The vera wee things, todlin', rin 

Wi' stocks out-owre their shouther; 
An' gif the custoc's sweet or sour, 

Wi' joctelegs they taste them ; 
Syne coziely, aboon the door, 

"Wi' cannie care, they've plac'd them 
To lie that night. 



The lasses staw frae 'mang them a' 

To pu' their stalks o' corn ;68 
Put Kab slips out. and jinks about, 

Behind the muckle thorn; 
He grippet Nelly hard an' fast ; 

Loud skirl'd a'' the lasses; 
But her tap-pickle maist was lost, 

When kittlin' in the fause-house69 
Wi' him that night. 

VII. 

The auld guidwife's weel-hoordet nits 7 <> 

Are round an' round divided, 
And monie lads, an' lasses' fates, 

Are there that night decided: 
Some kindle, couthie, side by side, 

An' burn thegither trimly ; 
Some start awa' wi' saucy pride, 

An' jump out-owre the chimlie 
Fu' high that night. 

vnr. 
Jean slips in twa wi' tentie e'e ; 

Wha 'twas, she wadna tell; 
But this is Jock, an' this is me, 

She says in to hersel': 
He bleez'd owre her, and she owre him, 
' cy wad never mair part; 
f n -*■ 



Till, fuff ! he started up the him, 

An' Jean had e'en a sair heart 

To see"t that night. 



Poor Willie, wi' his bow-kail runt, 
Was brunt wi' primsie Mall'ie: 

An' Mallie, nae doubt, took the drunt, 
To be compar'd to Willie : 



TAM SANSON'S ELEGY. 



Mall's nit lap out wi' pridefu' i 11 y. 

Aiul her ain tit it brunt it , 
While Willie lap. and swoor by jing, 

'Twas jiist tlie way he wanted 
To be that night. 

x. 
Nell had the fause-house in her ram', 

She pits hersel' an Bob in ; 

In loving breeze they sweetly join, 

Till white in ase they're soobin' ; 

Nell's heart was dancin' at the view, 

She whisper'd Rob to look for't : 
Bob, stowlins, prie'd her bonnic niou' 
Fu' cozie in the neuk for't, 

Unseen that night. 



But "Merran sat beliint their backs, 

Her thoughts on Andrew Bell ; 
She lea'es them gashin' at their cracks, 

And slips out by hersel' : 
She thro' the yard the nearest taks, 

An' to the kiln she goes then. 
An' darklins graipit for the banks. 

And in the blue clue**"- throws then, 
Bight fear't that night. 

XII. 

An' aye she win't, an' ay she swat, 

I wat she made nae jaukin' : 
Till something held within the pat, 

Guid L— d ! but she was quakin' ! 
But whether 'twas the Dei! himsel', 

Or whether it was a bank-en', 
Or whether it was Andrew Bell, 

She did iia' w r ait on talkin' 

To spier that night. 

XIII. 

Wee Jennie, to her Grannie says, 

" Will ye go wi' me, grannie ? 
I'll eat the apple"'- at the glass. 

I gat frae ancle Johnie ;" 
She'fuff't her pipe wi' sic a hint, 

In wrath she was sae vap'rin", 
She notic't na, an aizle brunt 

Her braw new worset apron 

Out thro' that night. 



" Ye little skelpie-limmer's face! 

How daur ye try sic sportin', 
As seek the foul thief »nie place. 

For him to spae your fortune '* 
Nae donbt but ye may get a sight ! 

Great cause ye hae to fear ir : 
For monie a ahe has gotten a fright, 

An' lived an' died deleret 
On sic a night. 

xv. 
"Ac hairst afore the Sherra-muir, 

I mind 't as weel's yestreen, 
I was a gilpey then, I'm sure 

1 was na past fyfteen: 
The simmer had been cauld an' wat, 

An' stuff was unco green: 
An' aye a rant in' kirn we gat, 

An' just on Hallowe'en 

It fell that night. 

XVI. 

- Our stibble-rig was Rab M'Gvaen, 

A clever, sturdy fallow; 
His sin gat Eppie Sim wi' wean, 

That livd in Achmacalla : 
He gat hemp-seed,? 3 I mind it weel, 

An' he made unco light o't; 
But mony a dav was by himsel', 

He was sae sairly frighted 

That vera night." 



xvti. 

Than up gat fechtin' Jamie Fleck, 

An' lie swore by his conscience, 
That he could saw hemp-seed a peck; 

For it was a' but nonsense ! 
The auld guid-inan raught down the pock, 

An' out a handf u' gie him ; 
Syne bade him slip frae 'mang the folk, 

Sometime when nae ane see'd him, 
An' try't that night. 

XVIII. 

He marches thro' amang the stacks, 
Tho' he was something sturtin', 

The grape he for a harrow taks, 
An' haurls at his curpin: 

An' ev'ry now an' then he says, 
" Hemp-seed, I saw thee, 

An' her that is to be my lass, 

Come after me, and draw thee, 
As fast this night." 

XIX. 

He whistl'd up Lord Lennox' march,' 

To keep his courage cheerie ; 
All ho* his hair began to arch, 

He was sae fley'tl an' eerie; 
Till presently he hears a squeak, 

An' then agrane an' gruntlc ; 
He by his shouther gae a keek, 

An" tumbl'd wi' a wintlc 

Out-owre that night. 

xx. 
He roar'd a horrid murder shout, 

In dreadfu' desperation ; 
An' young an' auld cam rinnin" out, 

To hear the sad narration: 
He swoor 'twas hilchin' Jean MCraw, 

Or Crouchie Merran Humphie, 
Till stop! she trotted thro' them a' ; 

An' wha was it but Grumphie 
Asteer that night ! 

xxr. 
Meg fain wad to the barn hae gane, 

To win three wechts. o' naething;"* 
But for to meet the deil her lane, 

She pat but little faith in; 
She gies the herd a pickle nits, 

An' twa red-cheekit apples, 
To watch, while for the barn she sets, 

In hopes to see Tarn Kipples 
That vera night. 

XXII. 

She turns the kev wi' cannie thraw, 

An' owre the threshold ventures ; 
But first on Sawnie gies a ca' 

Syne banldly in she enters; 
A ratton rattled up the wa' 

An' she cry'd " L— d preserve her!"' 
An' ran thro' middle-hole an* a" 

An' prav'd wi' zeal fervour, 
Fu' fast that night. 

XXIII. 
Thev hov*t out Will, wi' sair advice: 

Tliev hecht him some fine braw ane : 
It chane'd the stack he faddom'd tlince.'S 

Was timmer-propt for thrawin' , 
He taks a swirlie auld moss-oak. 

For some black, gronsome carliiv; 
An' loot a wince, an' drew a stroke, 

Till skin in blvpes cam haurlin' 

All's nieves that night. 

XXIV. 

A wanton widow Leezic was, 

As cantv as a kittlin' ; 
But Och! that night, amang the shaws, 

She got a fearfu' settlin' ! 



She thro' the whins, an' bv the cairn, 
An' owre the hills gaed scrievin', 

Whare thrae lairds lands' met at a burn • 
To dip her left sark-sleeve in, 

Was bent that night, 
xxv. 
Wiiyles owre a linn the bnrnic plays, 

As thro' the glen it wimpl't ; 
V\ hyles round a rocky scaur it strays; 

Whyles in a wiel it dhnpl't ; 
Whyles glittered to the nightly rays. 

Wi bickering dancing dazzle ; 
Whyles cookit underneath the braes, 
Below the spreading hazel, 

Unseen that night. 

XXVI. 

Amang the brackens, on the brae, 

Between her an' the moon, 
The deil, or else an outler quey, 

Gat up an" gae a croon ; 
Boor Leezie's heart maist lap the liool; 

Ne'er lav'rock height she jumpit, 
But mist a fit, an' in the pool 

Out-owre the lugs she plumpit. 

Wi' a plunge that night. 

xxvir. 
In order, on the clean hearth-stane, 

The lugfdes three" 7 are ranged, 
And ev'ry time great care is ta"en, 

To see them duly changed; 
Auld uncle John, wha wedlock's joys 

Sin'' Mars year did I desire. 
Because he gat the toom-dish thrice, 

He heav'd them on the fire, 

In wrath that night. 

XXVIII. 

Wi' merry sangs, an' friendly cracks, 

I wat thev did na weary ; 
An' unco tales, and funnie jokes. 

Their sports were cheap an" cheerv; 
Till bntter'd so'ns,"8 wi' fragrant hint, 

Set a' their gabs a-steerin' : 
Syne, wi' a social glass o' strunt, 

Thej r parted aff careerin' 

Fu' blithe that night. 



THE AULD FARMERS NEW-YEAR MORK- 
ING SALUTATION TO HIS AULD MAitJi 
MAGGIE, 



A Guid New-year I wish thee, Maggie! 
llae, there's a ripp to thy auld baggie : 
Tho' thou s howe-backit, now, an' knaggie, 

I've seen the day, 
Thou could hae gaen like onie staggie 

Out-owre the lay. 

Tho' now thou's dowie, stiff, and crazy 
An' thy auld hide's as white's a daisy, 
I've seen thee dappl't sleek, an* glazie, 

A bonnie gray: 
He should been tight that daur't to raise tin 
Ance in a day. 
Thou ance was i' the foremost rank, 
A filly bnirdly, steeve, an' swank 
An' set weel down a shapely shank 

As e'er tread yird ; 
An' could hae flown owt-owrc a stank, 
Like onie bird. 

It's now some nine-an'-twenty year, 
Sin' thou way my guid father's mere; 
He gied me thee, o' tocher clear, 

An' fifty mark; 
Tho' it was sma', 'twas weel-won gear, 
An' thou was stark. 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



When first I gaed to woo mv Jenny, 
Ye then was trottin" wi' yonr minnie: 
Tho' yc was trickie, slee, an' funnie, ■ 

Ye ne'er was donsie, 
But hamely, tawie, quiet, an' cannie, 

An' unco sonsie. 
That day. ye prane'd wi muckle pride, 
When ye bure hame my bonnie bride ; 
An' sweet an' gracefu' she did ride, 

Wi' maiden air ! 
Kyle Stewart I could bragged wide 

For sic a pair. 

Tho' now ye dow but hoyte an' hobble, 
An' wintle like a saumont-coble, 
That day ye was a j inker noble, 

For heels an' win' ! 
An' ran them till they a' did wauble, 

Far, far behin' 

When thou an' I were young and skeigh, 
An' stable-meals at fairs were dreigh, 
How thou wad prance, an' snore, an' skreigh, 

An' takthe road! 
Town's bodies ran, an' stood abeigh, 

An' ca't thee mad. 

When thou was corn't, an' I was mellow, 
We took the road aye like a swallow: 
At brooses thou had ne'er a fellow, 

For pith an' speed ; 
But ev'ry tail thou pay't them hollow, 

Whare'er thou gaed. 

The sma'"droop-rumpl"t, hunter, cattle, 
Might aiblins waur't thee for a brattle; 
But sex Scotch miles thou try't their mettle, 

An' gar't them whaizle ; 
Nae whip nor spur, but just a wattle 
0' saugh or hazel. 

Thou was a noble fittie-lan', 
As e'er in tug or tow was drawn ; 
Aft thee an' I, in aught hours gaun. 

In guid March weather, 
Hae tnrn'd sax rood beside our ban' 

For days thegither. 

Thou never braindg't an' fetch't. an' fliskit, 
But they auld tail thou wad hae whiskit, 
An' spread abreed thy weel-fill'd brisket, 

Wi' pith an' pow'r, 
Till spritty knows wad rair't an' risket, 

An' slypet owre. 
When frosts lay lang, an' snaws were deep 
An' threaten'd labour back to keep, 
I gied my cog a wee bit heap 

Aboon the timmer: 
I ken'd my Maggie wadna sleep 

For that, or simmer. 

In cart or car than never reestit ; 
The steyest brae thou wad hae fac't it ; 
Thou never lap, and sten't, and breastit, 

Then stood to blaw; 
But just thy step a wee thing hastit, 

Thou snoov't awa'. 

My pleugh is now thy bairn-time a' : 
Four gallant brutes as e'er did draw; 
Forbye sax mae I've sell't awa', 

That thou hast nurst: 
They drew me thretteen pund an' twa, 

The vera warst. 

Monie a sair daurk we twa hae wrought, 
An' wi' the weary waiT fought! 
An' monie an anxious day I thought 

We wad be beat ! 
Yet here to crazy age we're brought 

Wi' something yet. 

And think na, my auld, trusty servan', 
That now perhaps thou's less deservin' 



A WINTEK NIGHT. 



An' thy auld clays may end in starvin', 

For my last fou, 
A heapit stimpart, I'll reserve anc' 

Laid by for you. 
"We've worn to crazy years thegitlier ; 
iWe'll toyte about wi' ane anither ; 
Wi' tentie care I'll fl't thy tether, 

To some hain'd rig, 
Whare ye may nobly rax your leather, 

Wi' sma' fatigue. 



(TO A MOUSE, 
,ON TURNING HER IIP IN HER NEST "WITH THE 
PLOUGH, NOVEMBER, 1787. 

Wee, sleekit, cow'rin', tim'rous beastie, 
Oh, what a panic's in thy breastie! 
Thou need na start awa sae hasty. 

Wi' bickering brattle ! 
I wad be laith to rin an' chase thee, 

WT •murd'ring pattle 1 
I'm truly sorry man's dominion 
Has broken Nature's social union. 
An' justifies that ill opinion, 

Which makes thee startle 
At me, thy poor earth-born companion, 

An' fellow-mortal I 

I doubt na, whyles, but thou may thieve ; 
What then ? poor beastie, thou maun live! 
A daiuien icker in athrave 

\s a sma' request* 
I'll get a blcssin' wi' the lave. 

And never miss't ! 



: r H: 



i bit honsie, too, in ruin ! 
silly wa's the win's are strewin' : 
An' naething, now to big a new ane, 

O' foggage green ! 
An' bleak December's winds ensuin', 
Baith smell and keen! 
Thou saw the fields laid bare an' waste. 
An' weary winter comin' fast, 
An'cozie here, beneath the blast. 

Thou thought to dwell, 
Till crash! the cruel coulter past 
Out thro' thy cell. 

That wee bit heap o' leaves an' stibble, 
Has cost thee mony a weary nibble! 
Now thou's turn'd out. for a' thy trouble, 

But house or hald, 
To thole the winter's sleety dribble, 

An' cranreuch cauld ! 
But, Mousie, thou art no thy lane,j 
In proving foresight may be vain : 
The best laid schemes o' mice an' men, 

Gang aft a-gley, 
An'lea'e us nought but grief and pain, 

For promis'd joy. 
Still thou art blest, compar'd wi' me ! 
The present only toucheth thee : 
But Och ! I backward cast my e'e 

On prospects drear ; 
An' forward, though I canna see, 

I guess an' fear. 



A WINTEK XIGHT. 
'Poor naked wretches, whereso'eryon are, 
That bide the pelting of this pitiless storm! 
How shall your houseless heads and unfed sides 
Your -loop'd and window'd raggedness, defend 

you 
From seasons such as these T—Shakspere. 

When biting Boreas, fell and doure. 
Sharp shivers through the leafless bow'r; 



When Phoebus gi'es a short-liv'dglow'r 

Far south the lift, 
Dim-dark'ning through the flaky show'r 

Or whirling drift : 

Ae night the storm the steeples rocked, 
Pour labour sweet in sleep was locked, 
"While burns wi' snawy wreaths up-choked, 

Wild-eddying swirl. 
Or through the mining outlet booked, 

Down headlong hurl. 

List'ning, the doors an' winnocks rattle, 
I thought me on the ourie cattle, 
Or silly sheep, wha bide this brattle 

O' winter war, 
And throngh the drift, deep-lairing sprat tie 

Beneath a scaur. 

Ilk happing bird, wee helpless thing, 
That in themerrv months o' spring, 
Delighted me to hear thee sing. 

What comes o' thee? 
Whare wilt thou cow'r thy cluttering wing 

An' close thy e'e? 

Ev'n yon, on murd'ring errands toil'd, 
Lone from your savage homes exil'd. 
The blood-stain'd roost, and sheep-cote spoil'd, 

My heart forgets. 
While pitiless the tempest wild 

Sore on you beats. 

Now Phoebe, in her midnight reign. 
Dark muffled, view'd the dreary plain : 
Still crowding thoughts, a pensive train, 

.Rose in my soul. 
When on my ear this plaintive strain, 
" Slow, solemn stole— 

'Blow, blow, ye winds, with heavier gust ! 
And freeze, ye bitter-biting frost ; 
Descend, ye chilly, smothering snows : 
Not all yonr rage, as now, united, shows 
More hard unkindness, unrelenting, 
Vengeful malice unrepenting. 
Than heaven-illumin'd man on brother man be- 
stows ! 
See stern Oppression's iron grip, 
Or mad Ambition's gory hand, 
Sending, like blood-hounds from the slip, 

Woe, Want, and Murder o'er a land! 
Even in the peaceful rural vale, 
Truth weeping, tells the mournful tale, 
How pampered Luxury, Flatt'ry by her side, 
The parasite empoisoning her ear, 
"With all the servile wretches in the rear, 
Looks o'er proud property, extended wide ; 
And eyes the simple rustic hind, 

Whose toil upholds the glitt'ring show, 
A creature of another kind. 
Some coarser substance, unrefined, 
Placed for her lordly use thus far, thus vile, 
below. 
Where, where is Love's fond, tender throe, 
"With lordly Honour's lofty brow. 

The powers ye proudly own ? 
Is there, beneath Love's noble name, 
Can harbour, dark, the selfish aim, 

To bless himself alone? 
Mark maiden-innocence a prey 

To love-pretending snares, 
This boasting Honour turns away, 
Shunning soft Pity's rising sway. 
Regardless of the te"ars, and unavailing pray'rsj 
Perhaps, this hour, inMis'ry's squalid nest. 
She strains your infant to her joyless breast. 
And with a mother's fears shrinks at the rock- 
ing blast! 
Oh ye ! who, sunk in beds of down ! 
Feel not a want but what yourselves create, 
Think, for a moment, on his wretched fate, 
'Whom friends and fortune quite disown ! 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Ill satisfy'd keen Nature's clam'rous call, 
Stretch'd on his straw he lays himself t< 
sleep, 
"While thru' the ragged roof and clunky Avail, 
Chill o'er his slumbers piles the drifty heap! 
Think on the dungeon's prim confine . 
Where guilt and poor misfortune pine ! 
Guilt, erring man. relenting view '. 
But shall thy legal rage pursue 
The wreteh,"already crushed low 
By cruel Fortune'sundescrved blow? 
Affliction's sons are brothers in distress, 
A brother to relieve, how exquisite the bliss !' 

1 heard nae maer, for Chanticleer, 

•Shook off the pouthery snaw, 
And hail'd the morning with a cheer, 

A cottage-rousing craw. 

But deep this truth impressed my mind- 
Thro' all his works abroad. 

The heart, benevolent and kind, 
The most resembles God. 



EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHER POET.™ 

January. 

While winds frae aff Ben-Lomond blaw, 
And bar the doors wi' driving snaw, 

And hing us owre the ingle, 
I set me down to pass the time. 
And spin a verse or twa o' rhyme, 

In hamely westlin' jingle, 
"While frosty winds blaw in the drift, 

Ben to the chimla lug, 
I grudge a wee the great folk's gift, 
That live sae bein and snug : 
I tent less, and want less 

Their roomy fireside ; 
But hanker and canker, 
To see their cursed pride. 



Its hardly in a body's pow'r 
To keep at times frae bein sour, 
To see how things are shar'd; 
How best o' duels are whiles in want. 
"While coofs on countless thousands rant, 

An' ken na how to wair't : 
But. Davie, lad, ne'er fash your head, 

Tho' we hae little gear. 
We're fit to win our daily bread, 
As lung's we're hale and fier: 
■ Mair speir na, nor fear na'so 
Auld age ne'er mind a feg, 
The last o't. the warst o't, 
Is only for to beg. 

in. 
To lie in kilns and barns at e'en. 
When banes are craz'd and blnid is thin, 

Is. doubtless, great distress! 
Yet then, content could make us blest : 
Ev'n then sometimes we'd snatch a taste 

Of truest happiness. 
The honest heart that's free frae a' 

Intended fraud or guile, 
However fortune kick the ba". 
Has ave some cause to smile; 
And' mind still, you'll find still, 

A comfort this nae sina": 
Nae mair then, we'll care then, 
Nae farther can we fa' 

IV. 
What though like commoners of air, 
We wander out we know not where, 

But cither house or hall? 
Yet nature's charms, the hills and woods, 
The sweeping vales, and foaming Hoods, 

Are free alike to al}. 



In days when daisies deck the ground, 

And blackbirds whistle clear, 
With honest joy our hearts will bound, 
To see the coming year. 
On braes when we please, then, 

We'll sit and sowth a tune; 
Syne rhyme till't, we'll time till't, 
And sing't when we hae done. 



It's no in titles nor in rank ; 

It's no in wealth like Lon'on bank, 

To purchase peace and rest ; 
It's no in making muckle mair : 
It's no in books ; it's no in lear 

To mak us truly blest ! 
If happiness hae not her seat 

And centre in the breast, 
We may be wise, or rich, or great, 
But never can be blest: 
Nae treasures, nor pleasures, 
Could make us happy lang; 
The heart aye's the part ave. 
That makes us right or wrang. 



Think ye that sic as you and I, 

Wha drudge and drive through wet an' dry, 

Wi' never ceasing toil ; 
Think ye, are we less blest than they, 
Wha scarcely tent us in their way, 

As hardly worth their while ? 

Alas! how oft in haughty mood, 

God's creatures thev oppress! 

Or else neglecting a' that's guid, 

They riot in excess ! 

Baifh careless, and fearless 

Of either heav'n or hell! 
Esteeming ond deeming, 
It's a' an idle tale! 



Then let us cheerfu' acquiesce ; 
Nor make our scanty pleasures less, 

By pining at our state ; 
And, even should misfortune come, 
I. here wha sit, hae met wi' some, 

An's thankfu' for them vet. 
They gie the wit of age. to youth ; 

They let us ken oursel' ; 
They make us see the naked truth, 
The real guid and ill. 
Tho' losses, and crosses. 

Be lessons right severe, 
There's wit there, ye'll get there, 
Yc'll find nae other where. 



But tent me, Davie, ace o' hearts ! 

(To say aught else wad wrang the cartes, 

And" flatt'ry I detest) 
This life has joys for you and I ! 
And joys that riches ne'er couid buy ; 

And joys the very best. 
There's a the pleasures o" the heart, 

The lover an" the frien' : 
Ye have your Meg. your dearest part, 
And I my darling Jean ! 
It warms me, it charms me. 
To mention but her name : 
It heats me, it beats me. 
And sets me a' on a name. 

IX. 

Oh. all ye powers who rule above! 
Oh. Thou, whose very self art Love! 

Thou know'st my words sincere ! 
The life-blood streaming thro' my heart, 
Or my dear immortal part, 

Ts not more fondly dear 
When heart-corroding care and grief. 

Deprive my soul of rest, 
Her dear idea brings relief 

And spjace to mv breast, 



THE LAMENT. 



Thou Being, all-seeing, 
Oh hear mv fervent pray'r ! 

Still take her, and make her, 
Thy most peculiar care ! 

All hail, re tender feelings dear; 
The smiles of love, the friendly tear, 

The sympathetic glow ! 
Long since, this world's thorny ways 
Had numbered out my weary days, 

Had it not been for you! 
Fate still has blest me with a friend, 

In every care and ill ; 
And oft a more endearing band, 
A tie more tender still. 
It lightens, it brightens 

The tenebrific scene, 
To meet with, and greet with 
My Davie or my Jean ! 

XI. 

Oh, how that name inspires my style ! 
The words come skelpin', rank and file, 

Amaist before I ken ! 
The ready measure rins as fine, 
As Phoebus and the famous Nine 

Were glowrin' owre my pen. 
My spaviet Pegasus will limp, 

Till ance he's fairly net ; 
And then he'll hitch, and stilt, and jimp, 
An' rin an' unco fit ; 
But lest then, the beasts then, 

Should rue his hasty ride, 

I'll light now, and flight now 

His sweatv, wizen' d hide. 



THE LAMENT. 



"Alas ! how oft does Goodness wound itself, 
And sweet affection prove the spring of woe !'' 
— Home. 



On Tnou pale orb. that silent shines, 

While care-untroubled mortals sleep ! 
Thou seest a wretch that inly pines, 

And wanders here to wail and weep ! 
With woe I nightly vigil* keep. 

Beneath thy wan. unwarning beam ; 
And mourn, in lamentation deep, 

Hon- life and love are all a dream. 



I jovless view thv rays adorn 

The faintly marked distant hill : 
I joyless view thy trembling horn 

Reflected in the gurgling rill : 
My fondly fluttering heart be still ! 

Thou busy pow'r. Remembrance, cease ! 
Ah! must the agonizing trill 

For ever bar returning peace ! 



No idly-feign'd poetic pains, 

My sad, love-lorn lament ings claim; 
No sheperd's pipe— Arcadian strains; 

No fabled tortures, quaint and tame; 
The plighted faith ; the mutual flume; 

The oft-attested Pow'rs above ; 
The promised Father's tender name: 

These were the pledges of my love ! 



Encircled in her clasping arms, 

How have the raptur'd moments flown; 
How have I wish'd for fortune's charms, 

For her dear sake, and hers alone! 



And must I think it— is she gone. 
My secret heart's exulting boast? 

And does she heedless hear my groan? 
And is she ever, ever lost ? 



Oh! can she bear so base a heart, 

So lost to honour, lost to truth, 
As from the fondest lover part, 

The plighted husband of her youth? 
Alas ! life's path may be unsmooth ! 

Her way may lie thro' rough distress ! 
Then, who her pangs and pains will soothe, 

Her sorrows share, and make them less ? 

vr. 
Ye winged hours that o'er us past, 

Enraptured more, the more enjoy'd, 
Your dear remembrance in my breast, 

My fondly-treasur'd thoughts cmplov'd. 
That breast how dreary now, and void, 

For her too scanty oiicc of room ! 
Ev'n ev'rv ray of hope destroy'd. 

And not a wish to gild the gloom ! 

VII. 

The morn that warns th' approaching day, 
Awakes me up to toil and woe: 

I see the hours in long array. 
That I must suffer, lingering, slow. 

Full many a pang, and many a throe, 
Keen recollection's direful train, 



VIII. 

And when my nightly couch I try. 

Sore-harass'd out with care and grief, 
Mv toil-beat nerves, and tear-worn eye, 

Keep watchings with the nightly thief : 
Or if I slumber, fancy, chief, 

Reigns haggard-wild, in sore affright: 
Ev'n day, all bitter, brings relief. 

From "such a horror-breathing night. 

IX. 

Oh thou bright queen ! who o'er th' expanse 

Now highest reign'sr, with boundless sway 
Oft has thy silent-marking glance 

Observ'd us, fondly-wandering, stray ! 
The time, unheeded, sped away, 

While love's luxurious pulse beat high, 
Beneath thy silver-gleaming ray, 

To mark the mutual kindling eye. 
x. 
Oh ! scenes in strong remembrance set ! 

Scenes never, never to return! 
Scenes, if in stupor I forget, 

Again I feel, again I burn! 
From ev'rv joy and pleasure torn. 

Life's weary vale I'll wander thro" : 
And hopeless, comfortless, I'll mourn 

A faithless woman's broken vow. 



DESPONDENCY. 



Oppress' DAvith grief, oppress'd with care, 
A burden more than I can bear, 

I set down and sigh: 
Oh life ! thou art a galling load, 
Along a rough, a weary road, 

To wretches such as I ! 
Dim-backward as I cast my view, 

What sick'ning scenes appear! 
What sorrows yet may pierce me thro' 
Too justly I may fear! 
Still caring, despairing, 

Must be my bitter doom; 

My woes here shall close ne'er 

But with the closing tomb ! 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



II. 



Happv, vo sons of busy life, 
Wlio, equal to the bustling strife, - 

No bther view regard! 
Ev'n when the wished end's denied, 
Yet while the busy means are plied, 

They bring their own reward : 
Whilst I, a hope-abandon'd wight, 

Unfitted with an aim, 
Meet ev'ry sad returning night 
And joyless morn the same ; 
Yon, bustling, and jnstling, 
Forget each grief and pain: 
I listless, yet resistless, 
Find ev'ry prospect vain. 

hi. 
How blest the solitary's lot, 
Who, all-forgetting, all-forgot, 

Within his humble cell, 
The cavern wild with tangling roots, 
Sits o'er his newly gather' d fruits, 

Beside his crystal well ! 
Or haply to his ev'ning thought, 

By unfrequented stream, 
The ways of men are distant brought, 
A faint collected dream ; 
While praising, and raising 
His thoughts to heav'n on high, 
As wand'ring, meand'ring, 
He views the solemn sky. 

IV. 

Than I, no lonely hermit placed 
Where never human footstep traced, 

Less fit to play the part ; 
The lucky moment to improve, 
And just'to stop, and just to mov^. 

With self-respecting art : 
But, ah ! those pleasures, loves, and joys, 

Which I too keenly taste, 
The solitary can despise, 
Can want, and yet be blest! 
He needs not, he heeds not, 
Or human love or hate, 
* Whilst I here, must cry here, 
At perfidy ihgrate f' 
v. 
Oh! enviable, early days. 
When dancing thoughtless pleasure's maze, 

To care, to guilt unknown ! 
How ill exchanged for riper times, 
To feel the follies, or the crimes, 

Of others, or my own : 
Ye tiny elves that guiltless sport, 

Like linnets in the bush, 
Ye little know the ills ye court. 
When manhood is your wish ! 
The losses, the crosses, 

That active men engage ! 
The fears all, the tears all, 
Of dim declining age ! 



The wintry west extends its blast, 

And hail and rain does blaw ; 
Or the stormy north sends driving forth 

The blinding sleet and snaw: 
While tumbling brown, the burn comes down, 

And roars frae bank to brae; 
And bird and beast in covert rest, 

And pass the heartless day. 
ii. 
" The sweeping blast, the sky o'ercast,'' 8 ! 

The joyless winter-day, 
Let others fear, to me more dear 

Than all the pride of May : 



The tempest's howl, it soothes my soul, 

My grief it seems to join, 
The leafless trees my fancy please, 

Their fate resembles mine ! 
in. 
Thou Power Supreme, whose mighty scheme 

These woes of mine fulfil. 
Here, firm, I rest, they must be best, 

Because they are thy will ! 
Then all I want (Oh, do thou grant 

This one request of mine !) 
Since to enjoy thou dost deny, 

Assist me to resign. 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY NIGHT. 

INSCRIBED TO E. AIKEN, ESQ. 

' Let not ambition mock their useful toil, 
Their homely joys and destiny obscure ; 

Nor grandeur'heaY. with a disdainful smile, 
TheVmort but simple annals of the poor.'— Gray. 



My loved, my honour'd, much respected 
friend, 
Narnerccnary bard his homage pays: 
With honest pride 1 scorn each selfish end: 
My dearest meed, a friend's esteem and 
praise : 
To you I sing, in simple Scottish lays, 

The lowly train in life's sequester" d scene; 

The native feelings strong, the guileless ways; 

What aiken in a cottage would bave been ; 

Ah ! tho' his worth unknown, far happier there, 

I ween. 

ii. 
November chill blaws loud wi' angry sough ; 
The short'ning winter-day is near a close ; 
The miry beasts retreating frae the pleugh : 
The black'ning trains o' craws to their re- 
pose: 
The toil-worn Cotter frae his labour goes, 
This night his weekly moil is at an end, 
Collects his spades, his mattocks, and his hoes, 
Hoping the morn in ease and rest to spend, 
And weary, o'er the moor, his course does hame- 
ward bend. 

in. 
At length his lonely cot appears in view, 

Beneath the shelter of an aged tree ! 
Tli' expectant wee things, toddlin' stacher 
thro' 
To meet their dad, wi' nichterin' noise an' 
glee. 
His wee bit ingle, blinkin' bonnily, 
His clean heart h-stane, his thriftio wife's 
smile, 
The lisping infant prattling on his knee, 
Does a' bis weary carking cares beguile, 
And makes him quite forget his labour and his 
toil. 



Belyve the elder bairns come drapping in. 
At service out amang the farmers roun", 
Some ca' the pleugh, some herd, some tentie 
rin 
A cannie errand tp a neebor town; 
Their eldest hope, their Jenny, woman grown, 

In youthfu' bloom, love sparklin' in her e'e, 
Comes name, perhaps, to show a bra' new 
gown, 
Or deposit her sair-won penny fee, 
To help her parents dear, if they in hardship be. 

v. 
Wi' joy unfeigr.'d brothers and sisters meet, 

An' each for other's weelfare kindly spiers: 
The social hours, swift-wing'd unnotic'd fleet; 

Each tells the uncos that be sees or hears; 



THE COTTER'S SATURDAY INlGIiT. 

The parents, partial, eye their hopeful years ; 

Anticipation forward points of view. 
The mother, V her needle an' her shears, 
Gars auld claes look amaist as weel's tin 
new: 
The father mixes a' wi' admonition due. 



VI 

Their master's an' their mistress's command, 

The younkers a' are warned to obey ; 
'And mind their labours wi' eydent hand, 

And ne'er tho' out o' sight, to jank or play; 
An' Oh ! be sure to fear the Lord alway ! 

An' mind your duty, duly, morn an' night! 
Lest in temptation's path ye gang astray. 

Implore his counsel and assisting might : 
They never sought in vain that sought the Lord 
aright!' 

VII. 

But, hark ! a rap comes gently to the door, 

Jenny, wha kens the meanin' go the same, 
Tell how a neebor lad cam o'er the moor. 

To do some errands, and convey her hamc. 
The wily mother sees the conscious flame 

Sparkle in Jenny's e'e, and flush her cheek; 
Wi' heart-struck anxious care, inquires his 
name. 
While Jenny Hafflins is afraid to speak; 
Weel pleas'd the mother hears it's nae wild, 
worthless rake. 

VIII. 

Wi' kindly welcome. Jenny brings him ben ; 
A strappin' youth ; he taks the mother's 
e'e; 
Blithe Jenny sees the visit's no ill ta'en ; 
The father cracks of horses, pleughs, and 
kye. 
The youngster's artless heart o'erflows wi' 
joy. 
But blate and laithfu'. scarce can weel be- 
have; 
The mother wi' a woman's wiles can spy 
What makes the youth sae bashfu' an' sac- 
grave ; 
Weel pleas'd to think her bairn's respected like 
the lave. 



Oh happy love ! where love like this is found ! 
Oh heart-felt raptures! bliss beyond com- 
pare ! 
I've paced this weary mortal round, 
And sage experience bids me this declare— 
Jf rieav'n a draught of heavenly pleasure 

spare. 
One cordial in this melancholv vale, 
'Tis when a youthful, loving modest pair. 
In other's arms breathe out the tender tale. 
Beneath the milk-white thorn that scents the 
ev'ning gale." 

x. 
Is there, in human form, that bears a heart— 
A wretch ! a villain ! lost to love and truth ! 
That can, with studied, sly. ensnaring art. 

Betray sweet Jenny's unsuspecting vouth? 
Curse on his perjur'd arts! dissembling 
smooth ! 
Are honour, virtue, conscience, all exil'd? 
Is there no pity, no relenting ruth. 
Points to the parents fondling o'er their 
child ! 
Then paints the ruin'd maid, and their distrac- 
tion wild ? 

XI. 

But now the supper crowns their simple 
board. 
The halesome parritch, chief o' Scotia's 
food : 
The soupe their only hawkie does afford. 
That 'yont the hallan suugly chows her 
cood ; 



The dame brings forth, in complimental mood. 
To grace the lad, her weel-hain'd kebbuck 
fell, 
An' aft he's prest, an' aft he ca's it guid ; 
The frugal wife, garrulous, will tell, 
How 'twas a towmond auld, sin' 'lint was f the 
bell. 



The cheerfu' supper done, wi' serious face. 

Thev, round the ingle, form a circle wide; 
The sire turns o'er, wi' patriarchael grace, 
The big ha'-Bible, ance his father's pride: 
His bonnet rev'rently is laid aside. 

His lvart haffets wearing thin an' bare: 
Those "strains that once did sweet in Zion 
glide, 
He wales a portion with judicious care : 
And "Let us worship God!" he says with so- 
lemn air. 

XIII. 

Thev chant their artless notes in simple guise ; 
Tliey tune their hearts, by far the noblest 
aim: 
rerhaps 'Dundee's' wild warbling measures 
rise. 
Or plaintive 'Martyrs,' worthy of the 
name : 
Or noble 'Elgin' beets the heav'n-ward flame, 

The sweetest far of Scotia's holy lays : 
Compared with these, Italian trills are tame ; 
The tickl'd ears no heart-felt raptures raise ; 
Xae unison hae they with our Creator's praise. 

XIV. 

The priest-like father reads the sacred page. 

How Abram was the friend of God on high ; 
Or. Moses bade eternal warfare wage 

With Amalek's uimracions progeny. 
Or how the royal bard did groaning lie 

Beneath the" stroke of Heav'n's avenging 
ire: 
Or, Job's pathetic plaint, and wailing cry; 

Or rapt Isaiah's wild, seraphic fire ; 
Or other holy seers that tune the sacred lyre. 



Perhaps the Christian volume is the theme- 
How guiltless blood for guilty man was 
shed; 
How He, was bore in Heaven the second 
name. 
Had not on earth whereon to lay his head: 
Ilnw his first followers and servants sped: 
The precepts sage they wrote to raaiiv a 
land : 
How he. who lone in Patmos banished. 
Saw in the sun a mighty angel stand; 
And heard great Babylon's doom pronounced by 
Heaven's command. 

XVI. 

Then kneeling down to Heaven's eternal 
Kixg, 
The saint, the father, and the husband 
prays : 
Hope ' springs exulting on triumphant 
wings, 82 
That thus they all shall meet in future days : 
There ever bask in uncreated rays, 

No more to sigh or shed the bitter tear, 
To get hea* hymning their Creator's praise, 
In such society, yet still more dear; 
While circling time moves round in an eternal 
sphere. 

XVII. 

Compar'd with this, how poor Religion's 
pride. 

In all the pomp of method, and of art, 
When men display the congregations wide. 

Devotion's ev'ry grace, except the heart ! 



26 



BURNS* POETICAL WORKS. 



The pow'r, incensed, the pageant will desert, 

The pompous strain, tlie sacerdotal stole ; 
But, huplv. in some cottage far apart, 
.May hear, well-pleas'd, the language of the 
soul : 
And in his Book of Life the inmates poor enrol. 

Xvni. 
Then homeward all take off their sev'ral way ; 

The youngling cottagers retire to rest: 
The parent-pair their secret homage pay, 
And proffer np to Heaven the warm re- 
quest, 
That He who stills the raven's clam'rons nest, 

And decks the lily fair in fiow'ry pride, 
Would, in the way his wisdom sees the best, 
For them and for their little ones provide; 
But, chiefly, in their hearts with grace divine 
preside. 

XIX. 

From scenes like these old Scotia*s grandeur 
springs, 
That makes her loved at home, revered 
abroad : 
Princes and lords are but the breath of kings, 
"An honest man's the noblest work of 
God!" 
And certes. in fair virtue's heav'nly road, 

The cottage leaves the palace far behind : 
What is a loading's pomp ?— a cumbrous load, 
Disguising oft the wretch of humankind, 
Studied in arts of hell, in wickedness refined! 
xx. 
Oh Scotia ! my dear, my native soil ! 
For whom my warmest wish to Heaven is 
sent ! 
Long may thy hardy sons of rustic toil, 
Be blest with health, and peace, and sweet 
content ! 
And, Oh ! may Heav'n their simple lives pre- 
vent 
From luxury's contagion, weak and vile ! 
Then, howe'er crowns and coronets be rent, 
A virtuous populace may rise the while, 
And stand a wall of fire around their much- 
lov'd Isle. 

XXI. 

Oh Thou ! who pour'd the patriotic tide, 
That stream'd thro' Wallace's undaunted 
heart : 
Who dared to nobly stem tyrannic pride, 
Or nobly die, tlie second glorious part, 
(The patriot's God. peculiarly thou art, 

His friend, inspirer, guardian, and reward !) 
Oh never, never. Scotia's realm desert ; 
But still the patriot and the patriot bard, 
In .bright succession raise, her ornament and 
guard! 



MAN WAS MADE TO MOURN: 

A 1>I RGE. 
I. 

Whex chill November's surly blast 

Made fields and forests bare, 
One cv'ning, as I wander' d forth 

Along the banks of Ayr, 
I spy'd a man whose aged step 

Seem'd weary, worn with care ; 
His face was furrow'd o'er with years, 

And hoary was his hair. 

n. 
1 Young stranger, whither wand'rest thou ? 

Began the rev'rend sage ; 
'Does thirst of wealth thy stop constrain, 

Or youthful pleasures rage ? 
Or haply, prest with cares and woes, 

Too soon thou hast began 
To wander forth, with me, to mourn 

The miseries of man ! 



lit. 



The sun that overhangs yon moorSj 

Out-spreading far and wide, 
"Where hundreds labour to support 

A haughty lordling's pride ; 
I've seen yon weary winter-sun 

Twice forty times return ; 
And ev'ry time has added proofs 

That man was made to mourn. 

IV. 

Oh. man while in thy early years, 

How prodigal of time ! 
Mispending all thy precious hours : 

Thy glorious youthful prime! 
Alternate follies take the sway : 

Licentious passions burn; 
Which tenfold force gives nature's law, 

That man was made to mourn, 
v. 
Look not alone on youthful prime, 

Or manhood's active might ; 
Man then is useful to his kind, 

Supported in his right : 
But. see him on the edge of life, 

With cares and sorrows worn. 
Then age and want, Oh! ill match'd pair ! 

Show man was made to mourn. 

VI. 

A few seem favourites of fate, 

In pleasure's lap carest; 
Yet, think not all the rich and great 

Are likewise truly blest. 
But, Oh! what crowds in every land, 

Are wretched and forlorn ; 
Thro' weary life this lesson learn,— 

That man was made to mourn, 
vn. 
Many and sharp the num'rous ills, 

Inwoven with our frame. 
More pointed still we make ourselves, 

Iiegret, remorse, and shame ! 
And man, whose heav'n-erected face 

The smiles of love adorn. 
Man's inhumanity to man 

Makes countless thousands mourn! 



See yonder poor, o'erlabour'd wight, 

So abject, mean, and vile. 
Who begs a brother of the earth 

To give him leave to toil ; 
And see his lordly fellow-worm 

The poor petition spurn, 
Unmindful tho' a weeping wife 

And helpless offspring mourn. 

IX. 

If I'm design'd yon lordling's slave- 
By Nature's law design'd— 

Why was an independent wish 
E'er planted in my mind ? 

If not, why am I subject to 
His cruelty or scorn V 

Or why has'man the will and pow'r 
To make his fellow mourn '1 
x. 

Yet let not this too much, my son, 
Disturb thy youthful breast : 

This partial view of human-kind 
Is surely not the last ! 

The poor,'oppressed. honest man, 
Had never, sure, been born, 

Had there not been some recompense 
To comfort those that mourn ! 



Oh Death ! the poor man's dearest 
The kindest and the best ! 

"Welcome the hour my aged limbs 
Arc laid with thee at rest 



¥tf£ FIRST SIX VERSES OF" 

The great, the wealthy, fear thy blow, 

From pomp and pleasure torn; 
But Oil! a blest relief tu those 

That weary-laden mourn !" 

A PRAYER 

IN THE PROSPECT OF DEATH. 

Thou unknown Almighty Cause 

Of all my hope and fear ! 
In whose dread presence, ere an hour, 

Perhaps I must appear ! 

ii. 

If I have wander' d in those paths 

Of life I ought to shun- 
As something loudly, in my breast, 

Remonstrates I have done— 

in. 
Thou know'st that Thou hast formed me 

With passions wild and strong; 
And list'ning to their witching voice 

Has often led me wrong. 

"Where human weakness has come short, 

Or frailty stept aside, 
Do thou. All-good ! for such thou art, 

In shades of darkness hide. 

v. 
Where with intention I have crr'd, 

No other plea I have, 
But Thou art good; and iroodness still 

Delignfeth to forgive. 



STANZAS OX THE SAME OCCASION. 

"Why am I loath to leave this earthly scene? 
Have I so found it full of pleasing charms? 
Some drops of joy with draughts of ill be- 
tween : 
Some gleams of sunshine 'mid renewed 
storms : 
Is it departing pangs my soul alarms? 

Or death's unlovely, dreary, dark abode? 
For guilt, for guilt, my terrors are in arms; 
I tremble to approach an angry Goo, 
And justly smart beneath his sin-avenging rod. 

Fain would I say, ' Forgive my foul offence !' 

Fain promise never more to disobey ; 
But, should my author health again dispense, 

Again J might desert fair virtue's way ; 
Again in follv's path might go astray ; 

Again exalt the brute and sink the man ; 
Then how should I for heavenly mercy pray. 

Who act so counter heavenly mercy's plan ? 
Who sin so oft have mourn' d, vet to temptation 
ran ? 

Oh Thon great Governor of all below ! 

Jf 1 may dare a lifted eye to Thee, 
Thy nod can make the te'mpest cease to blew, 

Or still the tumult of the raging sea : 
With that controlling pow'r assist ev'n me, 

Those headlong furious passions to confine ; 
For all unfit I feel mv pow'rs to be. 

To rule their torrent in the hallowed line ; 
Oh, aid me with Thv help, Omnipotence Divine ! 






LYING AT A REVEREND FRIEND'S HOUSE ONE 
NIGHT. THE AUTHOR LEFT THE FOLLOWING 

VERSES, 

IN THE ROOM WHERE HE SLEPT. 

O thou dread Pow'r, who reign'st above, 

I know thou wilt me hear. 
When for this scene of peace and love, 
I make my prayer sincere. 



THE NINETIETH PSALM. 2 

ii. 
The hoary sire— the mortal stroke 

Long, long he pleased to spare, 
To bles- his" lit tic filial flock, 
And show what good men are. 
in. 
She. who her lovely offspring eyes 

With tender hopes and fears," 
Oh bless her with a mother's joys, 
But spare a mother's tears ! 

IV. 

Their hope, their stay, their darling youth, 

In manhood's dawning blush ; 
Bless him, thou God of love and truth, 
Cp to a parent's wish! 
v. 
The beauteous, seraph sister-band, 

With earnest tears I pray, 
Thou know'st the snares oil ev'ry hand, 
Guide thou their steps alway ! 

VI. 

When soon or late they reach that coast, 

O'er life's rough ocean driv'n, 
May they rejoice, no wand'rer lost 

A family in Heav'n ! 



THE FIRST PSALM. 
The man, in life wherever plac'd. 

Hath happiness in store, 
"Who walks not in the wicked's way, 

Nor learns their guilty lore ! 

Nor from the seat of scornful pride 
Casts forth his eyes abroad, 

But with humilitv and awe 
Still walks before his God. 

That man shall flourish like the trees 
Which by the streamlets grow; 

The fruitful top is spread oh high, 
And firm the root below. 

But he whose blossom buds in guilt, 
Shall to the ground be cast, 

And, like the rootless stubble, tost 
Before the sweeping blast. 

For why? that Goo the good adore 
Hath giv'n them peace and rest. 

But hath decreed that wicked men 
Shall ne'er be truly blest. 



A PRAYER, 
UNDER THE PRESSURE OF VIOLENT ANGUISH. 

Oh thou Great Being! what thou art 
Surpasses me to kn 



Thy creature here before Thee stands; 

All wretched and distrest; 
Yet sure those ills that wring my soul 

Obey thy high behest. 
Sure thou, Almighty, canst not act 

From cruelty or wrath ! 
Oh. free my weary eyes from tears, 

Or close them fast in death ! 

But if I must afflicted be, 

To suit some wise design ; 
Then man mv soul with firm resolves. 

To bear and not repine. 

THE FIRST SIX VERSES OF THE 
NINETIETH PSALM. 
On Thou, the first, the greatest Friend 

Of all the human race ! 
Whose strong right hand has ever been 
Their stav and dwelling-place! 



BefO?€ the mountains heav'd their heads, 

Beneath Thy forming hand, 
Before this no'nd'rous ylobe itself 

Arose at Thy command ; 
That Pow'r which rais'd, and still upholds 

This universal frame, 
From countless, unbeginning time, 

Was ever still the same. 

Those mighty periods of years, 

Which seem to us so vast, 
Appear no more before Thy sight, 

Than yesterday that's past. 

Thou gav'st the word: Thy creature, man, 

Is to existence brought: 
Again Thou say'st ' Ye sons of men, 

Return ye into nought !' 
Thou layest them with all their cares, 

In everlasting sleep ; 
As with a flood Thou tak'st them off, 

With overwhelming sweep. 
They flourish like the morning flow'r. 

In beauty's pride array'd; 
But long e're night, cut down, it lies 

All wither'd and decay'd. 



TO A MOUNTAIN DAISY. 

OS TUTiXIXG OXE DOWN WITH THE PLOUGH, KS 

APRIL, 1786. 

"Wee, modest, crimson-tipp'd flow'r, 
Thon's met me in an evil hour, 
For I maun crush ainang the stoure 

Thy slender stem ; 
To spare thee now is past my pow'r, 

Thou bonnie gem. 

Alas ! it's no thy rieibor sweet, 
The bonny lark, companion meet ! 
Bending thee 'mang the dewy weet ! 

Wi' spreckl'd breast, 
When upward-springing, blithe, to greet 

The purpling east. 
Canld blew the bitter-biting north 
"Upon thv early, humble birth; 
Yet cheerfully thou glinted forth 

Amid the storm, 
Scarce rear'd above the parent earth 

Thy tender form. 

The flaunting flow'rs our gardens yield, 
High shelfring woods and was maun shield: 
But thou beneath the random bield 

O' clod or stane, 
Adorn the histie stibble-field, 
Unseen, alane. 
There, in thy scanty mantle clad, 
Thv snawie bosom sun-ward spread, 
Thou lifts thy unassuming head 

In humble guise; 
But now the share uptears thy bed, 
And low thou lies ! 

Such is the fate of artless maid, 
Sweet floweret of the rural shade ! 
By love's simplicity betray'd. 

And guileless trust. 
Till she, like thee, all soil'd is laid 

Low i' the dust. 

Such is the fate of simple bard, 
On life's rough ocean luckless starr'd! 
Unskilful he to note the card 

Of prudent lore. 
Till billows rage, and gules blow hard, 

And whelm him o'er! 

Such fate to suffering worth is giv'n, 
"Who long with wants and woes has stnv n, 



BURNS' rOETICAL WORKS. 

By hi 
Till w 



Liman pride or cunning driv n 

To mis'ry's brink, 
reneh'd of every stay but Heaven, 

He, ruin'd, sink ! 



Ev'n thou who morn'st the Daisy's fate, 
That fate is thine— no distant date; 
Stern Ruin's plough-share drives, elate 

Full on thy bloom. 
Till crnsh'd beneath the furrow's weight, 

Shall be thy doom I 



TO RUIN. 

All hail ! inexorable lord ! 

At whose destruction-breathing word, 

The mightiest empires fall! 
The cruel, woe-delighted train, 
The ministers of grief and pain, 

A sullen welcome, all! 
With stern-resolv'd, despairing eye, 

I see each aimed dart ; 
For one has cut my dearest tie, 
And quivers in my heart. 
Then low'ring and pouring. 

The storm no more I dread . 
Though thick'ning and black'niug, 
Round my devoted head. 
ii. 
And thou grim pow'r, by life abhorr'd, 
While life a pleasure can afford, 

Oh hear a wretch's prayer! 
No more I shrink appall'd, afraid ; 
1 court, I beg thy friendly aid, 

To close this scene of care ! 
When shall my soul, in silent peace, 

Resign life's' joyless day ; 
My weary heart its throbbings cease, 
Cold mouldering in the clay? 
No fear more, no tear, more, 
To stain my lifeless face ; 
Enclasped, and grasped 
Within thy cold embrace ! 



TO MISS LOGAN, 

WITH BEATTIE'S POEM, AS A NEW-YEAB'S GI 
JAX. 1, 17S7. 

Again the silent wheels of time 

Their annual round have driv'n, 
And you, tho' scarce in maiden prime, 

Are so much nearer Heav'n. 
No gifts have I from Indian coasts 

The infant year to hail ; 
I send you more than India boasts 

In Edwin's simple tale. 
Our sex with guile and faithless love 

Is charg'd, perhaps, too true; 
But may, dear maid, each lover prove 

An Edwin still to you! 

EPISTLE TO A YOUNG FRIEND. 

MAT , 1780. 



A s 



<o hae thought. 



■tbii 



>ha 



y youthfu' Friend, 
; sent yon, 
iu other end 



Tho' it should 

Than just a kind memento ; 
But how the subjec, theme may ganj 

Let time and chance determine; 
Perhaps it may turn out a song, 

Perhaps turn out a sermon. 

Ye'll try the warld fu' soon, my lad, 
And, Andrew dear, believe me, 

Ye'll rind mankind an unco squad, 
And muckle they may grieve ye : 



ON' A SCOTCH BAUD. 



For care and trouble set your thought, 

E'en when your end's attained : 
An a' your views may come to nought, 

Where ev'ry nerve is strained, 
in. 
I'll no say men are villains a' ; 

The real, harden'd wicked, 
"Wha hae nae check but human law 

Are to a few restricked: 
But och! mankind are unco weak, 

An" little to be trusted ; 
If self the wavering balance shake, 

Its rarely right adjusted 1 

IV. 

Yet they wha fa' in fortune's strife, 

Their 'fate we -lioiikl na censure. 
For still th' important end of life 

They equally may answer : 
A man may hae ah honest heart, 

Tho' poortith hourly stare him ; 
A man my tak a neibor's part. 

Yet hae nae cash to spare him. 
v. 
Aye free, aff nan', your story tell, 

'When wi' a bosom crony ; 
But still keep something to yourser 

Ye scarcely tell to ony. 
Conceal yourser as we'el's ye can 

Frae critical dissection ; 
But keek thro' ev'ry other man, 

Wi' sharpen'd sly inspection. 



The sacred lowe o' weel plae'd love 

Luxuriantly indulge it; 
But never te'mpt th' illicit rove, 

Tho' naething should divulge it : 
I waive the quantum o' the sin, 

The hazard of concealing ; 
But, och! it hardens a' within, 

And petrifies the feeling ! 



To catch dame Fortune's golden smile, 

Assiduous wait upon her: 
And gather gear by ev'ry wile 

That's justified by honour; 
Not for to hide it in a hedge, 

JS'ot for a train-attendant -, 
But for the glorious privilege 

Of being independent. 

VIII. 

The fear o' hell's a hangman's whip, 
To hand the wretch in order ; 

But where ye feel your honour grip, 
Let that aye be your border ; 

Its slightest touches, instant pause- 
Debar a' side pretences ; 

And resolutely keeps its laws. 
Uncaring consequences. 



The great Creator to revere. 

Must sure become the creature : 
But still the preaching cant forbear, 

And e'n the rigid feature: 
Yet ne'er with wits profane to rancce, 

Be complaisance extended ; 
An' Atheist's laugh's a poor exchange 

For Deity offended. 

x. 
When ranting round in pleasure's ring, 

Religion may be blinded; 
Or. if she gie a random sting, 

It may be little minded : 
But when on life we're tempest driv'n, 

A conscience but a canker— 
A correspondence fix'd wi' Heav'n, 

Is sure a noble anchor ! 



Adieu, dear, amiable youth! 

Yonr heart can ne'er be wanting; 
May prudence, fortitude, and truth, 

Erect your brow undaunting! 
In ploughman phrase, • God send you speed, 

Still daily to grow wiser ; 
And may you better reck the rede, 

Than ever did th' adviser! 



OX A SCOTCH BARD, 

GOXE TO THE WEST IXDIES. 

A' ye wha live by sowps o' drink, 
A' ye wha live by crambo-clink, 
A' ye wha live and never think, 

Come mourn wi' ine ! 
Our billie's gien us a' a jink, 

An' owre the sea. 

Lament him a' ye rantin' core, 
Wha dearly like a random splore, 
Xae raair he'll join the merry roar, 

In social key ; 
For now he's ta'en anither shore, 

An' owre the sea. 
The bonnie lasses weel may miss him, 
And in their dear petitions place him. 
The widows, wives, an' a' may bless him, 

Wi' tearfn' e'e : 
For weel t wat thev'il sairlv miss him 

That's owre the sea. 
O fortune, they ha'e room to grumble ! 
Had' st thou ta'en aff some drowsy bummle, 
AVha can do nonght but fyke an' fumble, 

'Twad been nae plea- 
But he was gleg as ony wumble, 

That's owre the sea. 

Auld cantie Kyle may weepers wear, 
An' stain them wi' the saut. saut tear, 
'Twill mak her poor auld heart, I fear. 

In flinders flee ; 
He was her laureate monie a year, 

That's owre the sea. 

He saw misfortune's cauld nor-west ; 
Lang mustering up a bitter blast; 
A jillet brak' his heart at last, 

111 may she be! 
So, took a berth afore the mast. 
An' owre the sea. 

To tremble under fortune's cummock, 
On scare a bellyfu' o' drummock. 
Wi' his proud independent stomach 

Could ill agree ; 
So row't his hardies in a hammock, 

An' owre the sea. 
He ne'er was gi'en to great misguiding, 
Yet coin his pouches wad na bide in ; 
Wi' him it ne'er was under hiding; 

He dealt it free : 
The muse was all that he took pride in. 

That's owre the sea. 

Jamaica bodies, use him weel, 
An' hap him in a cozie biel: 
Ye'U find him aye a dainty chiel. 

And fou' o' glee : 
He wadna wrang'd the vera Deil. 

That's owre the sea. 
Fareweei, my rhyme-composing billie 
Your native so'il was right ill-whillies ; 
But may ye flourish lid a lily, 

Now bonnilie ! 
I'll toast ye in mv hindmost gillie, 

Tho' owre the sea ! 



BURNS' "POETICAL WORKS. 



TO A HAGGIS. 
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face, 
Great chieftain o' the pud din-race ! 
A boon them a" ye tak your place, 

Painch, tripe, or tliairm: 
Weel are ye worthy of a grace 

As Iaiig's my arm. 

Tlie groaning trencher there ve fill, 
Your hardies like a. distant hill. 
Your pin wad help to mend a mill 

In time o' need, 
"While thro' your pores the dews distil 

Like amber bead. 
His knife sec rustic labour dight, 
An' cut you up wi' ready slight, 
Trenching your gushing entrails bright, 

Like onie ditch ; 
And then, oh what a glorious sight, 

Warm-reekin, rich! 

Then horn for horn, then stretch an' strive, 
Deil tak The hindmost, on they drive, 
Till a" their weel-swall'd kytes belyve 

Are bent like arums; 
Then auld guidman, maist like to rive, 

' Bethankit ' hums. 
Is there that o'er his French ragout, 
Or Olio that wad staw a sow, 
Or fricassee wad her spew, 

Wi' perfect scunner, 
Looks down wi' sneering, scornfu' view, 

On sic a dinner ? 
Poor devil! see him owre his trash, 
As f reckless as a wither'd rash, 
His spindle-shank a gnid whip-lash, 

His nieve a nit: 
Thro 1 blood}- flood or field to dash, 

O how unfit! 
But mark the rustic, haggis-fed, 
The trembling earth resounds his tread, 
Clap in his walie neive a blade, 

He'll make it whissle; 
An' legs, an' arms, an' heads will sued, 

Like taps o' thrissle. 
Ye pow'rs wha raak mankind your care, 
And dish them out their bill o' fare, 
Auld Scotland wants no skinking ware 

That jaups in luggies; 
But, if ye wish her gratcfu' pray'r, 

Gieher a Haggis! 



A DEDICATION. 
TO GAVIN HAMIIIO N, E S Q. 
Expect na, Sir, in this narration, 
A fleeching, fleth'rin. dedication, 
To roose you up, an. ca' you guid, 
An' sprung o' great an' noble bin id, 
Because ye're surnamed like his grace, 83 
Perhaps related to the race : 
Then when I'm tired— and sae arc ye, 
Wi' moiiy a fulsome, sinfif lie, 
Set up a face, how I stop short, 
For fear your modesty be hurt. 

This may do— maun do. Sir. wi' them wha 
Mann please the great folk for a waniefou' ■ 
For me, sae laigh 1 needna bow. 
For. Lord be thankit, I can plough* 
And when I dinna yoke a naig. 
Then, lord be thankit, I can lug: 
Sae I shall say. and that's nae'llatt'rin,' 
It's Just sic poet an' sic patron. 



The Poet, some guid angel he 
Or else, 1 fear some ill ane sl< 
He mav do weel for a' he dor 
But only he's no just begun ^ 



i hir 



The Patron. (Sir. he maun forgive mc, 
I winna lie, come what will o' me) 
On ev'rv hand it will allowed be. 
He's just— nac better than he should be. 

I readily and freely grant, 
He downa see a poor man want: 
What's no his ain he winna tak it. 
What ance he says he winna break it; 
< Mi-lit lie can lend he'll no refuse it ; 
Till aft his goodness is abused; 
And rascals whiles that do him wrang, 
Ev'n that, he does na mind it lang; 
As master, landlord, husband, father, 
He does nac fail his part in either. 

But then, na thanks to him for a' that; 
Nae godly symptom ye can ca' that; 
It's naething but a milder feature, 
Of our poor, sinfu' corrupt nature; 
Ye'll get the best o' moral works, 
Mang black Gentoos and pagan Turks, 
Or hunter's wild on Ponotaxi, 
Wha never heard of orthotloxy. 
That he's the pooa; man's friend in need, 
The gentleman in word and deed, 
It's no thro' terror of damnation; 
It's just a carnal inclination. 

Morality, thou deadly bane, 
Thy tens o' thousands thou hast slain! 
Vain is his hope, whose stay and trust is 
In moral mercy, truth, and" justice ! 

No— stretch a point to catch a plack; 
Abuse a brother to his back: 
Steal thro' a winnock frae a wh-re. 
But point the rake that taks the door; 
Be to the poor like onie whunstane, 
And hand their noses to the grunstane 
Ply ev'ry art o' legal thieving: 
No matter,— stick to sound believing! 

Learn three-mile pray'rs, an' half-mile gvaceu 
Wi' wetl-spread looves'. an' lang wry faces; 
Grunt up a solemn, lengthen'd groan, 
And damn a' parties but your own : 
I'll warrant then, ye're nae deceiver, 
A steady, sturdy, staunch believer. 

O ye wha leave the springs of Calvin, 
For gumlie dubs of your ain delvin ! 
Ye sons of heresy and error, 
Ye'll some day sqneel in quaking terror! 
When Vengeance draws the sword in wrath, 
And in the fire throws the sheath; 
When Ruin, with his sweeping besom, 
Just frets, till Heav'n commission gies him; 
While o'er the harp pale Misery moans, 
And strikes the evcr-decp'ning tones. 
Till louder shrieks, and heavier groans! 

Your pardon. Sir, for this disgression, 
I maist forgat my dedication: 
But when divini'tv comes cross me, 
My readers still are sure to lose mc. 

So, Sir, ye sec 'twas nae daft vapour, 
But I maturely thought it proper, 
When a' my work I did review, 
To dedicate' them. Sir, to you: 
Because (ye need na tak ft ill) 
I thought them something like yoursel'. 

Then patronise them wi' your favour, 
And your petitioner shall ever — 
I had amaist said, ever pray, 
But that's a word I need na sav: 
For pravin' I hac little skill o't'; 
I'm baith dead-sweer. an' wretched ill o't; 

That kens or hears about you. Sir— " 

"Mav ne'er misfortune's gowlingbark, 
Howl iliro' the dwelling o' the Clerk! 
May ne'er his gen'roi'.s, lioncst heart, 
For that same gen'rous spirit smart! 



ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 



May Kennedy's far-honour d name 
Lang beet his hymeneal flame, 
Till Hamilton's at least a dizen, 
Are by their canty fireside risen ; 
Five bonnie lasses round their table, 
And seven braw fellows, stont an' able 
To serve their king and country weel, 
By word, or pen, or pointed steel ! 
May health and peace, with mutual rays, 
Shine on the evening o' his days : 
Till his wee curlie John's ier-oe, 
When ebbing life nac mair shall flow. 
The last, sad, mournful rites bestow!" 

I will not mind a iang conclusion, 
Wi' complimentary effusion, 
But whilst your wishes and endeavours 
Are blest with Fortune's smiles and favours, 
I am, dear Sir, with zeal most fervent, 
Your much indebted, humble servant. 

But if (which pow'rs above prevent!) 

That iron hearted carl v Want. 

Attended in his grim advances, 

By sad mistakes, and black mischances. 

While hopes, and joys, and pleasures fly him, 

Make you as poor a dog as I am, 

Your humble servant then no more; 

For who would humbly serve t lie poor? 

But by a poor man's hopes in Heaven ! 

While recollection's power is given, 

If, in the vale of bumble life, 

The victim sad of fortune's strife, 

I, thro' the tender gushing tear. 

Should recognise my master dear. 

If friendless, low we meet together, 

Then, Sir, your hand— my friend and brother ! 



TO A LOUSE. 
OX SEEING ONE OX A LADY'S BONNET AT CHURCH. 

Ha! whare ye gaun, ye crowlin' ferlie? 
Your impudence protects you sairly • 
1 canna say but ye strnrit rarely, 

Owre gauze and bice; 
Tho", faith! I fear ye dine but sparely 

On sic a place. 

Ye ugh', creepin", blastit wonner. 
Detested, shunn'd by saunt an' sinner, 
How dare you set your fit upon her, 

Sac fine a lady! 
Gae somewhere else and seek your dinner, 

On some poor body. 

Swith, in some beggar's haffct squattlc: 
There ye may creep, and sprawl, and sprattle, 
Wi' ither kindred, jumping cattle, 

In shoals and nations: 
Whare horn or bane ne'er dare unsettle 

Your thick plantations. 

Now baud vou there, ve're out o" sight, 
Below the fatt'rils. snug an' tight ; 
Na, faith ye yet ! ye'll no be right 

Till y'e've got on it. 
The vera tapmost tow'ring height 

O' Miss's bonnet. 
My sooth ; right bauld ye set yonr nose cut, 
As plump and grey as onie grozet; 
Oil for some rank, mercurial rozet, 

Or fell, redsmedu m, 
I'd gi'e you sic a hearty dose o't, 

Wad dress your droddum! 

I wad na been surprised to spy 
You on an auld wife's flanneri toy; 
Or aiblins some bit duddie boy, 

Oil's wyliecoat; 
But Miss's fine Lunardi.s* fie! 

Bow dare ye do't? 
O Jenny, dinna toss your head, 
,\n' sctyoijr beauties a' abreadj 



Ye little ken what cursed speed 

The blastie's makin' ! 
Thao winks and finger ends, I dread, 

Are notice takin' ! 
O wad some power the giftie gie us 
To see oursels as others see us ! 
It wad frae monie a blunder free us, 

And foolish notion: 
What airs in dress an' gait wad lea'c us, 

And ev'n devotion! 

ADDRESS TO EDINBURGH. 

Edixa ! Scotia's darling seat ! 

All hail thy palaces and towers, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet, 

Sat Legislation's sovereign powers! 
From marking wildly-scatter'd flowers, 

As on the banks of Ayr I stray'd, 
And singing, lone, the fing'ring'hours, 

1 shelter in thy honour'd shade. 

Here wealth still swells the golden tide, 

As busy Trade his labour plies ; 
There Architecture's noble pride 

Bids elegance and splendour rise ; 
Here Justice, from her native skies, 

High wields her balance and her rod; 
There learning, with his eagle eyes, 

Seeks Science in her coy abode, 
in. 
Thy sons, Edixa! social, kind, 

With open arms, the stranger hail; 
Their views enlarg'd, their lib'ral mind, 

Above the narrow, rural vale; 
Attentive still to sorrow's wail, 

Or modest merit's silent claim ; 
And never may their sources fail! 

And never envy blot their name ! 

IV. 

Thv daughters bright thv walks adorn 

<;av as the gilded summer sky, 
Sweet as the dewy milk-white thorn, 

Dear as the raptur'd thrill of joy! 
Fair Burnet" strikes tb' adoring eye, 

Heav'n's beauties on my fancy shine: 
I see the Sire of Love on high. 

And own his work indeed divine ! 
v. 
There, watching high the least alarms, 

Thv rough, rude fortress gleams afar: 
Like "some bold vet'ran, grey in arms, 

And mark'd with many a seamy scar: 
The pond'rous walls and massy bor, 

Grim-rising o'er the rugged rock, 
Have oft withstood assailing war. 

And oft repell'd th' invader's shock. 

VI. 

With awe-struck thought, and pitying tears, 

I view that noble, stately dome. 
Where Scotia's kings of other years, 

Fam'd heroes ! had their royal home: 
Alas ! how changed the times to come! 

Their rvval name low in the dust! 
Their hapless race wild-wand'ring roam, 

Tho' rigid law cries out, 'twas just! 

VII, 

Wild beats mv heart to trace your steps, 

Whose ancestors, in days of yore, 
Thro' hostile ranks and ruin d gaps 

Old Scotia's bloody lion bore: 
E'en I who sing in rustic lore. 

Haply, mv sires have left their shed, 
And faced grim danger's loudest roar. 

Bold-following where your fathers led ! 

VIII. 

Edixa! Scotia's darling seat! 

All hail thy palaces and tow'rs, 
Where once beneath a monarch's feet = 

Sat legislation's sov'reign pow'rs! 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



From marking wildlv scattered flowers. 
As on the banks of Ayr I strav'd. 

And singing, lone, the ling'ring hours, 
I shelter'd in thy honour' d shade. 



< EPISTLE TO J. LAPKAIK. 

AN T OLD SCOTTISH BARD, APRIL 1ST, 1785. 

While briers an' woodbines budding green, 
An' paitricks scraichin' loud at e'en, 
An' morning poussie whiddin' seen, 

Inspire my mus, 
This freedom in an unknown frien' 

I pray excuse. 
On Fasten-e'en we had a rockin' 
To ca' the crack and weave our stockin' ; 
And there was muckle fun and jokin', 

Ye need na doubt ; 
At length we had a hearty yokin' 

At sang about. 

There was ae sang, amang the rest, 
Aboon them a' it pleas'd me best. 
That some kind husband had addrest 

To some sweet wife : 
It thirl'd the heart-strings thro' the breast, 

A' to the life. 
I've scarce heard ought described sac weel 
What gen'rous manlv bosoms feel: 
Thought I, ' Can this" be Pope, or Steele, 

Or Beattie's wark ?' 
They tauld me 'twas an old kind chiel 

About Muirkirk, 
It pat me fidgin'-fain to hear't. 
And sae about him there I spier't. 
Then a' that ken't him. round declar'd 

He had ingine. 
That nane excell'd it, few cam near't, 

It was sae fine ; 
That, set him to a pint of ale, 
An' either douce or merry tale, 
Or rhymes an' san.srs he'd made himscl', 

Or wittv catches, 
'Tween Inverness and Teviotdale, 

He had few matches. 
Then up I gat. an' swoor an aith, 
Tho' I should pawn my pjeugh an' graith, 
Or die a cadger pownie's death, 

At some dyke back, 
A pint an' gill I'd gie them baith 

To hear your crack. 
But, first an' foremost. I could tell, 
Amaist as soon as I could spell, 
I to the crambo-jinsrle fell: 

Tho' rude an' rough, 
Yet crooning to a body's sel\ 

Does weel enough. 

I am nae poet, in a sense, 
But just a rhymer, like by chance, 
An' hae to learning nae pretence, 

Yet, what the matter? 
"Whene'er my muse does on me plance, 

I jingle at her. 

Your critic folk may cock their nose, 
And say. ' How can you e'er propose. 
Yon. wlia ken hardly verses frae prose, 

To mak a sang?' 
But, by your leaves, my learned foes, 
Ye're maybe wrung. 
W T hat's a' your jargon o' your schools, 
Your Latin names for horns an' stools; 
If honest nature made you fools, 

What sairs your grammars? 
Ye'd better taen up spade and shools, 

Or knappin-hammers, 



A «ct o' dull, conceited hashes. 
Confuse their brains in college classes? 
They gang in stirks, and come out asses, 
Plain truth to speak; 
An' sync they think to climb Parnassus 
By dint o' Greek! 
Gie me ae spark o' nature's fire! 
That's a' the learning I desire; 
Then tho' I druge thro' dub an' mire 
At pleugh or cart, 
My muse, tho' hamely in attire, 

May touch the heart. 
Oh for a spunk o' Allan's glee, 
Or Ferguson's the bauld and slee. 
Or bright Lapraik's. my friend to be, ■ 

If I can hit it ! 

That would be lear eneugh for mc ! 

If I could get it. 

Now. Sir. if ve hae friends enow, 

Tho' real friends I b'lieve are few, 

Yet, if j-our catalogue be fou' 

I'se no insist. 
But gif ye want ae friend that's true, 
I'm on your list. 

I winna blaw about mvsel' ; 
As ill I like my faults to tell : 
But friends arid folk that wish me well, 

They sometimes roose me 
Tho' I maun own, as monie still 

As far abuse me. 

There's ae wee faut they whyles lay to mc, 
I like the lasses— Gude forgie me! 
For monie a plack they wheedle frae mc. 

At dance or fair ; 
Maybe some ither thing they gie me 

They weel can spare. 
P>ut Manchline race, or Mauchline fair, 
I should be proud to meet yon there ; 
We'se gie ae night's discharge to care, 

If we forgather, 
An' hae a swap o' rhymin'-ware 

Wi' ane anither. 
The four-gill chap, we'se gar him latter, 
An' kirsen him wi' reekin' water ; 
Syne we'll sit down an tak our whitter, 

To cheer our heart ; 
An' faith, we'se be acquainted better 

Before we part. 
Awa' ye selfish warly race, 
Wha think that havins", sense, an' grace, 
Ev'n love and friendship should give place 

To catch the plack ! 
I dinna like to see your face, 

Nor hear your crack. 
But ye whom social pleasure charms. 
Whose hearts the tide of kindness warms, 
Who hold your being on the terms, 

^ach aid the others," 
Come to my bowl, come to my arms, 

My friends, my brothers ! 
But. to conclude ray lang epistle. 
As my anld pen's worn to the grisslc : 
Twa lines frae you wad gar me fissle, 

Who am most fervent, 
While I can either sing, or whissle, 

Your friend and servant. 



TO THE SAME. 

APRIL 21, 17&5. 

While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake, 
An' pownies reek in pleush or braik, 
This hour on e'enin's edge I take. 

To own I'm debtor 
To honest-hearted auld Lapraik, 

For his kind letter 



Forjesket sair, with weary legs. 
Rattlin' the corn out-owre the rigs, 
Or dealing thro' amang the naigs 

Their ten hours' bite, 
My awkward mnse sair pleads and beg?, 

I would na write. 

The tapetless ramfeezled hizzie, 
She's saft at best, and something lazy, 
Quo' she, 'Ye ken we've been sae busy 

This month an' mair. 
That, trouth ! my head is grown right dizzie, 

An' something sair.' 
Her dowff excuse pat me mad : 
'Conscience,' says I, ' ye thowless jad! 
I'll write, an' that a hearty blaud, 

This vera night ; 
So dinna ye affront vonr trade. 

But rhyme it right. 

1 Shall bauld Lapraik, the king o' hearts, 
Tho' mankind were a pack o' cartes, 
Roose you sae weel for your deserts. 

In terms kae friendly. 
Yet ye'll neglect to shaw your parts. 

An' thank him kindly V 

Sae I gat paper in a blink, 
An' down gaod stumbie in the ink : 
Quoth I, ' Before I sleep a wink, 

I vow I'll close it ; 
An if ye winna mak' it clink. 

By Jove, I'll prose it." 

Sae I've begun to scrawl, but whether 
In rhyme, or prose, or baith thegither. 
Or some hotch-potch that's rightly neither, 

Let time mak proof ; 
But I shall scribble down some blether 

Just clean aff-loof. 

My worthy friend, ne'er grudge an' earn, 
Tho' fortune" use you hard and sharp: 
Come, kittle up your moorland harp 
"Wi" gleesome touch ! 
Ne'er mind how fortune waft and warp ; 
She's but a b-tch. 

She's gien me monie a jirt and fleg, 
Sin' I could striddle owre a' rig! 
But, by the Lord, tho' I should beg, 

Wi' lvart pow, 
I'll laugh, an' sing, ah' shake my leg, 

As lang's I dow! 

Now comes the sax and twentieth simmer, 
I've seen the bud upo' the timmer, 
Still persecuted by the limmer, 
Frae year to year ; 
But yet, despite the kittle kimmer, 
I, Rob, am here. 

Do ye envy the city gent, 
Behint a kist to lie and sklent, 
Or purse-proud, big wi' cent, per cent. 

And muckle wame, 
In some bit brugh to represent 

A bailie name '1 

Or is't the panghty. feudal Thane, 
Wi' ruffled sark and glancin' cane, 
Wha thinks himself nae sheep-shank bane, 

But lordly stalks 
While caps an' bonnets aff are taen, 

As by he walks ? 

' O Thou wha gies us each gnid gift ! 
Gie me o' wit and sense a lift, 
Then turn me if thou please adrift 
Thro' Scotland wide; 
Wi' cits nor lairds 1 would na' shift, 
In a' their pride 1' 
Were this the charter of our state, 
'On pain' o' hell be rich and great. 



TO WILLIAM SlMt'SON". 



Damnation then would be our fate. 

Beyond remead ; 
But, thanks to Heav n ! that's no the gate 

We learn our creed. 

For thus the royal mandate ran, 
When first the human race began. 
The social, friendly, honest man, 

Whate'er he be, 
' Tis he fulfils great Nature's plan, 

An' none but he !' 

O mandate glorious and divine ! 
The followers o' the ragged Nine, 
Poor glorious devils ! yet may shine 

In glorious light. 
While sordid sons of Mammoth's light, 
Are dark as night. 

Tho' here they scrape, an' squeeze, an' growl, • 
Their worthless nievefu' of a soul 
May in some future carcase howl 

The forest's fright; 
Or in some day-detesting owl 

May shun the light. 

Then may Lapraik and Burns arise, 
To reach their native, kindred skies. 
And sing their pleasures, hopes, and joys, 

In some mild sphere, 
still closer knit in friendship's ties, 

Each passing year! 

TO WILLIAM SIMPSON. 

OCHILTREE. 

May, 1785. 
T gat your letter, winsome Willie ; 
Wi' gratefu' heart I thank you brawlie ; 
Tho'T maun say't, I wad be silly, 

An' unco vain. 
Should I believe, my coaxin' hillie. 

Your flatterin' strain. 

But I'se believe ye kindly meant it, 
I sud be laith to think ye hinted 
Ironic satire, sidelins sklented 

On my poor musie : 
Tho' in sic phraisin' terms ye've penn'd it, 

I scarce excuse ye. 

My senses wad be in a creel, 
Should 1 but dare a hope to speel. 
Wi' Allan or wi' Gilbertfield. 

The braes of fame ; 
Or Fergusson, the writer-chiel, 

A deathless name. 

(Oh Fergusson ! thy glorious parts 
111 suited law's dry musty arts ! 
My curse upon your whunstaue hearts, 

Ye E'nbrugh gentry ! 
The tithe o' what ye waste at cartes. 

Wad stow'd his pantry !) 
Yet when a tale comes i' my head. 
Or lasses gie my heart a screed, 
As whiles they're like to be my dead, 

(Oh, sad disease !) 
I kittle up my rustic reed : 

It gies me ease. 

Auld Coila, now, may fidge fu' fain, 
She's crotten poets o' her ain, 
Chiels wha their chanters winna hain, 

But tune their lays, 
Till echoes all resound again 

Her weel-sung praise. 

Xae poet thought her worth his while, 
To set her name in measnr'd style ; 
She lay like some unkenn'-d of isle 

Beside New-Holland, 
Or whare wild-meeting oceans boil 
Be-south Magellan 
Ramsay an' famous Fergusson 
Gied Forth an' Tay a lift aboon ; 



34 BUUNS' 1'OET 

Yarrow all* Tweed to monie a tunc, 

Owre Scotland ring, 
While Irwin, Lugar, Ayr, an* Boon, 

Nae body sings.' 
Th' Illissus. Tiber, Thames, an' Seine, 
Glide sweet in monie a tunefu' line; 
lint, Willie, set your tit to mine. 

An' cock your crest, 
"We'll gar our streams and burnies shine 

Up wf the best! 
We'll sing otild Coila's plains an' fells, 
Her moors red-brown wi' heather bells, 
Her banks an' braes, her dens an' dells. 

Where glorious Wallace 
Aft bure the gree. as story tells, 

Frae southron billies. 
At Wallace' name what .Scottish blood 
But boils up in a spring tide flood: 
Oft have our fearless fathers strode 

By Wallace' side, 
Still pressing onward, red-wat-shod, 

Or glorious died ! 
Oh sweet are Coila's haughs an' woods, 
When lintwhites chant among the buds, 
An' jinking hares, in amorous winds, 

Their loves enjoy, 
While thro' the brae the cushat croods 

With wailfu' cry! 
Evil winter bleak has charms to me 
When winds rave thro" the naked tree, 
Or frost on hills of Ochiltree 

Are hoary gray; 
Or blinding drifts, wild-furious"flee, 

Dark'ning the day ! 

Oh, nature! a' thy shows an' forms 
To feeling, pensive hearts hae charms! 
Whether the summer kindly warms, 

Wi' life an' light, 
Or winter howls, in gusty storms, 

The lang, dark night; 

The muse, nae poet ever fand her, 
Till by himsel' ho learn'd to Avander, 
Adown some trotting burn's meander 

An' no think lang. 
Oh sweet, to stray, an' pensive ponder 

A heart-felt sang! 

The war'ly race may drudge and drive, 
Hog-shouther. jundie, stretch, an' strive; 
Let me fair nature's face descrive, 

And 1. wi' pleasure, 
Shall let the busy, grumbling hive, 

. Bum o'er their treasure. 
Fareweel, ' my rhyme-composing brither !' 
We've been owre lang unkenn'd to ither, 
Now let us lay our heads thegither, 
' In love fraternal! 

; May envy wallop in a tether, 
' Black fiend, infernal. 

While highlandmen hate tolls and taxes; 
While moorlan' herds like guid fat braxies; 
While terra firma on her axis 

Diurnal turns. 
Count on a friend, in faith and practice, 
In Robert Burns. 

POSTSCRIPT. 
My memory's no worth a preen ; 
I had amaist forgotten clean, 
Ye bade me write you what they mean 
By this New-Liglit,?7 
'Bout which our herds sae aft hae been 
i Maist like to fight. 

In days when mankind were but callans 
At grammar, logic, an' sic talents, 
They took nae pains their speech to balance, 

Or rules to gi'e, 
But spak their thoughts in plain braid Lallans, 
Like you or me. 



ICAL WORKS. 

In thae auld times, they thought the modil, 
.lust like a sark, or pair o' shoon, 
Wore by degrees, till her last roon, 

Gaed past their viewing, 
An' shortly after she was done, 

They gat a new anc. 
This past for certain, undisputed; 
It ne'er cam i' their heads to doubt it, 
Till chiels gat up an' wad confute it, 

An' ca'd it wrang ; 
An' muckle din there was about it, 

Baith loud and lang. 

Some herds, weel learn'd upo' the beuk, 
Wad threap auld folk the thing misteuk; 
For 'twas the auld moon turn'd a neuk, 

An' out o' sight, 
An' backlins-comin', to the leuk, 

She grew mair bright. 

This was deny'd— it was affirm'd : 
The herds and hersels were alarm'd; 
The rev'rend grey-beards rav'd an' storm'd, 

That beardless laddies 
Should think they better were inform'd 

Than their auld daddies. 

Frae less to mair it gaed to sticks ; 
Frae words an' aiths to clours an' nicks ; 
An' monie a fallow gat his licks, 

Wi' hearty crunt; 
An' some, to learn them for their tricks, 

Were hang'd an' brunt. 
This game was play'd in monie lands, 
An' Auld-Light caddies bure sic hands, 
That, faith, the youngsters took the sands 

Wi' nimble shanks, 
Till lairds forbade, by strict commands. 

Sic bluidy pranks. 
But New Light herds gat sic a cowc. 
Folk thought them ruin'd stick-an'-stowe, 
Till now amaist. on ev'ry knowe, 

Ye'll find ane plac'd; 
An' some, their New Light fair avow, 

Just quite barefae'd. 

Nae doubt the Auld Light flocks arc blcatin' ; 
Their zealous herds are vex'd an' sweatin' ; 
Mysel', I've even seen them greetin' 

Wi' girnin' spite, 
To hear the moon sae sadly lie'd on 

By word an' write. 
But shortly they will cowe the loons ! 
Some Auld Light herds in neibor towns 
Are mind't in things they ca' balloons, 

To tak a flight, 
An' stay a month amang the moons 

An' see them right. 
Guid observation they will gie them; 
An' when the auld moon's gaun to lea'e them 
The hindmost shaird, they'll fetch it wi' them 
An' when the New-Light billies see them, 

I think they'll crouch! 
Sae. ye observe that a' this clatter 
Is naething but a 'moonshine matter:' 
But tho' dull prose-folk Latin splatter 

In logic tnlzie, 
I hope, we bardies ken sumo better 

Than mind sic brulzic. 



EPISTLE TO J. KANKINE,8S 

ENCXOSTXO, SOME POEMS. 

On rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine, 
The wale o' cocks for'fun and drinkin' ! 
There's inuiiv godly folks are thinkin', 

Your dreams 8i) an' tricks 
Will send you, Korah-like, a-sinkin', 

Straight to auld Nick's. 



JOHN BARLEYCORN" 



Ye hae sae monie cracks an' cants, 
And in your wicked, drunken rants, 
Ye mak' a devil o" the sannts, 

An' fill them fon. 
And then their failings, flaws, an' wants, 
Are a' seen thro'. 

Hypocrisy, in mercy spare it; 
That holy robe, dinna tear it ! 
Sparet for their sakes wha aften wear it, 

The lads in black ! 
But your curst wit, when it comes near it, 

Rives't aff their back. 

Think, -wicked sinner, wha ye're skaithing. 
It's just the blue-gown badge an' claithing 
O' saunts ; tak that, ye lea'e them naething 

To ken them by, 
Frae ony unregenerate heathen 

Like you or I. 

I've sent you here some rhyming ware, 
A' that I bargain'd for an' mair; 
.Sae, when ye hae an hour to spare, 

I will expect 
Yon sang, 89 ye'll sen't wi' canine care, 

And no neglect. 

Tho' faith, sma' heart hae I to sing! 
My muse dow scarcely spread her wing! 
I've play'd mysel a bonnie spring, 



'Twas ae night lately in my fun 
I gaed a roving wi' the gun, 
An' brought a paitrick to the grun, 

A bonnie hen, 
And, as the twilight was begun, 

Thought nane wad ken. 
The poor wee thing was little hurt ; 
1 straikit it a wee for sport. 
Ne'er tliinkin' they wad fash me for't ; 

But, deil-ma care! 
Somebody tells the poacher-court 

The hale affair. 

Some auld ns'd hands had ta'en a note, 
That sic a hen had got a shot ; 
I was suspected for the plot; 

I scorn'd to lie ; 
So gat the whiss'.e o' my groat. 

An' pay't the fee. 
But, by my gun, o' guns the wale, 
An' by my pout her an' my hail, 
An' by my hen, an' by her tail, 

I vow an' swear ! 
The game shall pay o'er moor an' dale, 

For this, neist year. 
As soon's the clockin'-timc is by, 
An' the wee pouts begun to cry, 
Lord, I'se hae sportin' by an' by 

For my'gowd guinea: 
Tho' I should herd the buckskin kye 

For't, in Virginia. 
Trowth, they had meikle for to blame ! 
Twas neither broken win? nor limb. 
But twa-three draps about the wame. 

Scarce thro' the feathers 
An' baith a yellow George to claim, 

An' thole their blethers! 
It pits me aye as mad's a hare ; 
So I can rhyme nor write, nae mair, 
But pennyworths again is fair, 

When time's expedient; 
Meanwhile I am. respected Sir. 

Your most obedient. 



JOHN BARLEYCORN. 90 



There were three kings into the east, 
Three kings both great and high, 

An' they hae sworn a solemn oath 
John Barleycorn should die. 

ii. 
They took a plough and plough'd him down, 

But clods upon his head, 
And they hae sworn a solemn oath 

John Barleycorn was dead, 
nr. 
But the cheerful spring came kindly on, 

And show'rs began to fall ; 
John Barleycorn got up again, 

And sore snrpris'd them all. 



The sultry suns of summer came, 
And he grew thick and strong, 

His head weel arm'd wi' pointed spears. 
That no one should him wrong. 



The sober autumn entcr'd mild. 
When he grew wan and pale: 

His bending joints and drooping head 
Show'd he began to fail. 

VI. 

His colour sicken'd more and more, 

He faded into age; 
And then his enemies began 

To show their deadly rage. 



They've ta'en a weapon, long and sharp, 

And cut him by the knee : 
Then tied him fast upon a cart, 

Like a rogue for forge rie. 



They laid him down upon his back, 
And cudgell'd him full sore; 

Tliey. hung him up before the storm, 
And turn'd him o'er and o'er. 



They filled up a darksome pit 
With water to the brim. 

They heaved in John Barleycorn, 
There let him sink or swim. 



They laid him out upon the floor, 

To work him farther woe, 
And still as signs of life appear'd 

They toss'd Iiim to and fro. 

XI. 

They wasted o'er a scorching flame, 

The marrow of his bones; 
But a miller used him worst of all. 

For he crush'd him between two stones 



And they hae ta'en his very heart's blood 
And drank it round and round: 

And still the more and more the}' drank, 
Their joy did more abound. 

XIII. 

John Barleycorn was a hero bold. 

Of noble enterprise, 
For if you do but taste his blood, 

'Twill make your courage rise, 

XIV. 

'Twill make a man forget his woe; 

'Twill heighten all his joy ; 
'Twill make the widow's heart to sing, 

Tho' the tear Avere in her eye. 



BUBJTS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Then let ns toast John Barleycorn, 
Each man a glass in hand; 

And may his great posterity 
Ne'er fall in old Scotland: 



A F B A G M EXT. 
Tune— 1 - Killicrankic." 
Whex Guildford good our pilot stood, 

And did our helm thraw, man, 
Ac night, at tea. began a plea, 

Within America, man : 
Then up they gat the maskin-pat, 

And in the' sea did jaw, man; 
An' didnae less, in full congress. 

Than quite refuse our law, man. 
u. 
Then thro* the lakes Montgomery takes, 

I wat he was no slaw, man ; 
Down Lowrie's burn he took a turn, 

And Carleton did ca\ man : 
But yet, what-reck, he, at Quebec, 

Montgomery-like, did fa", man : 
Wi' sword in hand, before his baud, 

Amang his enemies a', man. 
in. 
Poor Tammy Gage, within a cage. 

Was kept at Boston Ha', man : 
Till Willie Howe took o'er the knowe 

For Philadelphia, man : 
Wi' sword an' gun he thought a sin, 

Guid Christian blood to draw, man; 
But at New-York, wi' knife and fork, 

Sir-loin he hacked sma', mam 



Burgoyne gaed up, like spur an' whip, 

Till Eraser brave did fa", man ; 
Then lost his way, ae misty day. 

In Saratago shaw, man. 
Cornwallis fought asking's he dought, 

An' did the buckskins claw, man : 
But Clinton's glaive frae rust to save 

He hung it to the wa', man. 



Then Montague, an' Guildford too. 

Began to fear a' fa', man ; 
And Sackville doure, wha stood the stoure 

The German Chief to thraw, man ; 
For Paddy Burke, like onie Turk, 

Mae mercy had at a', man : 
An' Charlie Fox threw by the box, 

An' lows'd his tinkler jaw, man. 



Then Rockingham took up the game ; 

Till death did on him ca". man : 
When Shelburne meek held up his chee 

Conform to gospel law. man. 
Saint Stephen's boys, wi' jarring noise, 

Thev did his measures thraw, man, 
For North and Fox muted stocks, 

And bore him to the wa", man, 

VII. 

The clubs an' hearts were Charlie's cartes, 

He swept the stakes awa". man. 
Till the diamond's ace. of Indian race. 

Led him a sair faiuvpas, man: 
The Saxon lads, "wi' loud placads. 

On Chatham's boy did ca', man : 
An' Scotland drew her pipe, an' Mew, 

" Up, Willie, waur them a", man ! 
vn r. 
Behind the throne then Grenville's gone. 

A secret word or twa. man ; 
While slee Dundas arous'd the class 

Be-north the Roman wa , man : 



An' Chatham's wraith, in heavenly graith, 

(inspired bardies saw, man) 
Wi' kindling eyes, cry'd, •• Willie, rise ! 

Would I ha'e fear'd them a', man i 

IX. 

But word an' blow. North, Fox and Co., 

Gowff'd Willie like a ba', man. 
Till Southrons raise, and coost their claisc 

Behind him in a raw. man : 
An' Caledon threw by the drone, 

An' did her wittle draw, man ; 
An' swoor fu' rude, thro' dirt and blood 

To make it guid in law, man. 



SONG. 

Tune— "Corn Pugs are Bonnie." 

i. 

It was upon a Lammas night, 

When corn rigs are bonnie. 

Beneath the moon's unclouded liglit, 

I held awe to Annie: 
The time flew by wi' tentless heed, 

'Till tween the late and early. 
Wi' sma' persuasion she agreed, 
To see me thro' the barley. 



The sky was blue, the wind was still, 

The moon was shining clearly : 
I set her down, wi' right good'will 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 
I ken't her heart was a' my ain ; 

I lov'd her most sincerely : 
I kiss'd her owre and owre' again, 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

in. 
I lock'd her in my fond embrace ;' 

Her heart was beating rarely; 
My blessing on that happy place, 

Amang the rigs o' barley! 
But by the moon and stars so bright, 

Tha"t shone that hour so clearly. 
She aye shall bless that happy night, 

Amang the rigs o' barley! 

IV. 

I hae been blithe wi' comrades dear; 

I hae been merry drinkin' ; 
I hae been joyfu' gath'rin gear; 

I hae been happy thinkin': 
But a' the pleasures e'er I saw, 

Tho' three times doubled fairly, 
That happy night was worth them a' 

Amang the rigs o' barley. 

CHORUS. 

Corn rigs an' barley rigs, 
An' corn rigs are bonnie : 

I'll ne'er forget that happy night, 
Amang the rigs wi' Annie. 



SON G, 

COMPOSED IX AUGUST. 

Tune— "I had a horse, I had nac mair." 



Now westlin' winds, and slanght-ring suns, 

Bring autumn's pleasant weather: 
The moorcock springs, on whirring wings, 

Amang the blooming heather: 
Now waving grain, wide o'er the plain. 

Delights tb" weary farmer: 
And the moon shines bright, when I rove 
night. 

To muse upon my charmer. 






The partridge loves the fruitful fell: 

The plover loves the mountains: 
The woodcock haunts the lonely dells; 

The soaring hern the fountains: 
Thro' lofty groves the cushat roves, 

The path of man to shun it ; 
The hazel bush o'erhangs the thrush, 

The spreading thorn the linnet, 
in. 
Thus ev'ry kind their pleasure find, 

The savage and the tender: 
Some social join, and leagues combine ; 

Some solitary wander: 
A vaunt, away! the cruel sway, 

Tyrannic man's dominion : 
The sportsman's joy, the murd'ring cry, 

The flutt'ring, gory pinion! 

IV. 

But Peggy dear, the ev'ning's clear, 

Thick flies the skimming swallow : 
The sky is blue, the fields in view, 

All fading-green and yellow: 
Come let us stray our gladsome way, 

And view the charms of nature ; 
The rustling corn, the fruited thorn, 

And ev'ry happy creature. 

v. 

We'll gently walk, and sweetly talk, 

Till the silent moon shine clearly ; 
I'll grasp thy waist, and, fondly prest, 

Swear how 1 love thee dearly: 
Not vernal show'rs to budding flow'rs, 

Not autumn to the farmer, 
So dear can be as thou to me, 

.My fair, my lovely charmer! 



S O X G. 
Tune—'-'' My Nannie, 1" 
i. 
Behind yon hill, where Stinchar flows, 

Mans? moors an' mosses many, O ! 
The wintry sun the day has clos'd, 
And I'll uwa' to Nannie, O ! 



The westlin' wind blaws loud an' shrill ; 

The night's baith mirk and rainy, O! 
But I'll get my plaid and out I'll steal, 

An' owre the hills to Nannie, O ! 



My Nannie's charming, sweet, an' young 
Nae artfu' wiles to win ye, O ! 

May ill beta' the flattering tongue 
That wad beguile my Nannie O ! 



Her face is fair, her heart is true, 
As spotless as she's bonnie, O ! 

The opening go wan, wet wi' dew, 
Nae purer is than Nannie, O ! 



A country lad is mv degree, 
An' few there be that ken me, O! 

But what care I how few they be, 
I'm welcome aye to Nannie ! 



My riches a's my penny-fee, 
An' I maun guide it cannie, O ! 

But waii's gear ne'er troubles me, 
My thoughts are a' my Nannie, O! 

VII. 

Our auld Guidman delights to view 
His sheep an' kye thrive bonnie, O! 

But I'm as blithe that hands his plough. 
An' has nae care but Nannie, O ! 



SONG. 
I 



Come week come woe. I care na by, 
111 take what Heaven will sen' me, 0! 

Nae ither care in life have I, 
But live, an' love my Nannie, O ! 



GREEN GROW THE RASHES. 

A FRAG 51 EXT. 
CHORUS. 

Green grow the rashes, O ! 

Green grow the rashes, O ! 
The sweetest hours that e'er I spend, 

Are spent amang the lasses, O ! 

i. 
There's nought but care on every nan', 

In every hour that passes, O! 
What signifies the life o' man, 
An' 'twere na for the lasses, O ! 
Green grow, «fec. 

ii. 
The warlv race may riches chase. 
An' riches still may flv them, O! 
An' though at last thev catch them fast. 
Their hearts can ne'er enjoy them, O! 
Green grow, &c. 



But gie me a canny hour at e'en, 
My arms about my dearie, O! 

An warly cares, an' warlv men, 
Mav a* gae tapsalteerie", O ! 

Green grow, etc. 



For you so douse, ye sneer at this, 
Ye're nought but senseless asses, 0! 

The wisest man the warld e'er saw, 
lie dearly loved the lasses, O! 
Green grow, <tec. 

A". 

Auld Nature swears, the lovely dears, 
Her noblest work she classes, O ! 

Her 'prentice nan' she tried on man. 
And then she made the lasses, O! 
Green grow, &c. 



S O N G. 
Tune—" Jockies Grey Breeks." 



Again rejoicing Nature sees 
Her robe assume its vernal hues, 

Her leafy locks wave in the breeze. 
All freshly steep'd in morning dews. 

CHORUS. 9 ! 

And maun I still on Menie 93 doat. 
And bear the scorn that's in her'e'e ? 

For it's jet,, jet black and it's like a hawk 
And it winna let a body be ! 

ii. 

In vain to me the cowslips blaw. 
In vain to me the violets spring; 

In vain to me, in glen or shaw. 
The mavis and the lintwhite sing. 
And maun I still, Arc 

in. 
The merry ploughboy cheers his team, 

Wi' joy the tentie seedsman stalks, 
But life "to me's a weary dream, 
A dream of ane that never wanks. 
And maun I still, &c. 



The wanton coot the water skims, 
Aiming the reeds t lie ducklings cry, 

Tlie stately swan majestic swims, 
And ererything is blest but I. 

And maun I still, & 



BtfUNS' POETICAL WORKS. 

Ji n t boundless oceans roaring w 
Between my love and me, 

Thev never, never eah divide 
My heai't and soul from thee. 



The shepherd steek-s Iris faulding slap, 

And owre the moorlands whistle shrill, 
Wi' wild, unequal, wandering step, 
I meet him on the dewy hill. 

And maun 1 still, Arc. 
vJ. 
And when the lark, 'tween light and dark. 

Blithe waukens by the daisy's side. 
And mounts and sings on fluttering wings, 
A woe-worn ghalst I hameward glide. 

And maun 1 still, &c. 

VII 

Come. Winter, with thine angry howl, 

And raging bend the naked tree ; 
Thy gloom will soothe my cheerless soul. 
When nature all is sad like me. 

CHORUS. 
And maun I still on Menie doat, 

And bear the scorn that's in her e'e ? 
For it's jet black, and it's like a hawk, 

An' it winna let a body bc. 9 2 



SOX G . 

Tune— "Rbshn Castle." 

i. 

The gloomy night is gath'ring fast, 
Loud roars' the wild inconstant blast, 
Yon murky cloud is foul wi' rain, 
1 see it driving o'er the plain : 
The hunter now has left the moor, 
The scatter'd coveys meet secure, 
While here 1 wander prest wi' care, 
Along the lonely banks of Ayr. 

The Autumn mourns her ripening corn, 
By early Winter's ravage torn ; 
Across her placid, azure sky, 
She sees the scowling tempest fly; 
Chill runs my blood to hear it rave,— 
J think upon the stormy wave, 
Where many a danger I must dare. 
Far from the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

in 
Tisnot the surging tallow's roar, 
'Tis not that fatal deadly shore: 
Tho' death in every shape appear, 
The wretched have no more to fear! 
But round my heart the ties are bound, 
That heart transpierced with manv a wound; 
These bleed afresh, those ties 1 tear, 
To leave the bonnie banks of Ayr. 

IV. 

Farewell, old Coila's hills and dales, 
Her heathy moors and winding vale- ; 
'lh ■ scenes" were wretched fancy roves, 
Pursuing past unhappy loves! 
Farewell, my friends!" farewell, my foes! 
My peace with these, my love with those— 
The bursting tears my heart declare. 
Farewell the bonnie banks of Ayr! 



FROM thee, Eliza, I mi 
And from my native 

The cruel fates betwei 
A boundless ocean's 



Farewell, farewell, Eliza dear, 

The maid that 1 adore ! 
A boding voice is in mine ear, 

We part to meet no more ! 
But the last throb that leaves my heart, 

While death stands victor by, 
That throb. Eliza, is thy part, 

And thine that latest sigh! 



THE FAREWELL. 

TO THE BRETHREN OF ST. JAMES'S LODGE, TAlt- 
BOLTON. 

Tune—' 1, Good night and Joy be wi' you a' ?" 
i. 

Adieu! a heart-warm, fond adieu! 

Dear brothers of the mystic tie! 
Ye favour'd, ye enlighten d few, 

Companions of mv social jov! 
Tho' I to foreign lands must hie, » 

Pursuing Fortune's slipp'ry ba\ 
With melting heart, and brimful eye, 

I'll mind you still, tho' far awa'. 

ii 
Oft have I met your social band. 

And spent the" cheerful festive night; 
Oft, honour'd with supreme command, 

Presided o'er the Sons of Light ; 
And by that Hieroglyphic Bright. 

Which none but Craftsmen ever saw; 
Strong Mem'ry on my heart shall write 

Those happy scenes when far awa' ! 

in. 
May Freedom, Harmony, and Love, 

Unite you in the grand design. 
Beneath the Omniscient Eve above, 

The glorious Architect Divine ! 
That you may keep th' unerring line, 

Still rising*!)}- the plummet's law, 
Till Order bright completely shine, 

Shall be my pray t when far awa'. 

IV. 

And you. farewell! whose merits claim, 
Justly, that highest badge to wear ! 

Ileav'n bless your honour'd. noble name, 
To Masonry and Scotia dear! 

A last request, permit me here, 
When yearly ve assemble a". 

One round -I ask it with a tear- 
To him, the Bard that's far awa' ! 



S O N G . 

Tune—" Prepare, mv dear brethren, to the 

tavern let's fly." 



Hied bottle's the whole of n 



The peer I don't envy, 1 give him his bow: 

I scorn not the peasant, tho' ever so low; 

But a club of good fellows, like those that arc 

And a bottle like this, are my glory and care. i 

in. 
Ilerepassesthe squire on his brother— his horse: 
There centum per centum, thecit with his purse; 
But see you The Crown, how it waves in the 

There, a big-bellied bottle still eases my care. - 



ELEGY ON CAPTAIN MATTHEW IIEXDEI^Clv 



rr. IV " 

The wife of my besom, alas ! she did die ! 
For sweet consolation to cliurch I did Uy ; 
• I found that old Solomon proved it fair. 
That a big-bellied bottle's a cure for all care. 

I once was persuaded a venture to make ; 
A letter informd me that all was to wreck : 
But the pursy old landlord just waddl'd up- 
stairs. 
With a glorious bottle that ended my cares. 

VI. 

' Life's cares they are couitorts'93_a maxim laid 

down 
By the bard, what d'ye call him, that wore the 

biack gown , 
And faith 1 agree with th' old prig to a hair; 
For a big-bellied bottle's a heaven of care, 

[A Stanza added in a Mason Lodge.] 
Then fill up a bumper and make it o'erflow, 
And honours masonic prepare for to throw: 
May every true brother of the compass and 

square 
Have a big-bellied bottle when barass'd with 

care ! 



WRITTEN IN FRIAES-CARSE HERMITAGE, 

OX XITHSIDE. 

Thou whom chance may hither lead, 
Be thou clad in russet weed, 
Be thou deck'd in silken stole, 
Grave these counsels on thy soul:— 

Life is but a day at most. 
Sprung from night, in darkness lost 
Hope not sunshine every hour, 
Fear not clouds will always lower. 

As youth and love with sprightly dance, 
Beneath thy morning star advance, 
Pleasure with her siren air 
May delude the thoughtless pair; 
Let prudence bless enjoyment's cup, 
Then raptur'd sip, and sip it up. 

As thy day grows warm and high, 
Life's meridian flaming nigh. 
Dost thou spurn the humble vale ? 
Life's proud summits wouldst thou scale ? 
Check thy climbing step, elate, 
Evils lurk in felon wait : 
Bangers, eagle-pinion'd hold, 
Soar around each cliffy hold, 
"Wlnle cheerful peace, with linnet, 
Chants the lowly dells among. 

As the shades of ev'ning close, 
Beck'ning thee to repose ; 
As life itself becomes disease. 
Seek the chimney-neuk of case. 
There ruminate with sober thought. 
On all thou'st seen, and heard, and wrought; 
And teach the sportive younkers round, 
Saws of experience, sage and sound. 
Say, man's true, genuine estimate, 
The grand criterion of his fate, 
Is not. Art thou high or low ? 
Bid thy fortune ebb or flow 'i 
Bid many talents gild thy span ? 
Or frugal nature grudge thee one? 
Tell them, and press it on their mind, 
As thou thyself must, shortly rind. 
The smile or frown of awful Heav'n, 
To virtue or to vice is giv'n, 
Say. to be just, and kind, and wise. 
There solid self-enjoyment lies; 
That foolish, selfish, faithless wavs. 
Lead to the wretched, vile, and base. 

Tims resign'd and quiet, creep 
To the bed of lasting sleep ; 



Sleep, whence thou shalt ne'er awake, 
Night where dawn shalt never break, 
Till future life, future no more. 
To light and joy the good restore, 
To light and joy unknown before. 
Stranger, go, Heav'n be thy guide! 
Quod the beadsman of Nith-side. 



O BE. 

SACKED TO THE MEMORY OF JIRS. OSWALD. 
Dweller in yon dungeon dark, 
Hangman of creation! mark 
"Who in widow-weeds appears, 
Laden with unhonoured years, 
Noosmg with care a bursting purse, 
Baited with many a deadly curse ! 

STROPHE. 

View the wither'd beldam's face — 

Can thy keen inspection trace 

Aught "of humanity's sweet, melting grace ? 

Not that eye, 'tis rhnem o'erflows, 

Pity's flood there never rose. 

See those hands, ne'er stretch'd to save, 

Hands that took -but never gave. 

Keeper of Mammon's iron chest, 

Lo, there she goes, unpitied. and unblcst ; 

She goes, but not to realms of everlasting rest ! 

ANTISTROPHE. 

Plunderer of armies, lift thine eyes, 

(A while forbear, ye torturing fiends!) 

Seest thou whose step unwilling hither bend: 'i 

No fallen angel, hurl'd from upper skies ; 

'Tis thy trustv quondam mate, 

Boom'd to share thy fiery fate, 

She, tardy, hell-ward plies. 

EPODE. 

And arc they of no more avail, 

Ten thousand glitt'rir.g pounds a-year? 

In other worlds can Mammni fail, 

Omnipotent as he is here? 

O, bitter mock'ry of the pompons bier. 

While down the wretched vital part is driven ! 

The cave-lodg'd beggar, with a conscience clear, 

Expires in rags, unknown, and goes to Heaven. 



' But now his radiant course is run, 
For Matthew's course was bright: 

His soul was like the glorious sun, 
A matchless Heav'nly light !' 

DEATn! thou tyrant fell and bloody ; 

The meikle devil wi' a woodie 

Haurl thee hame to this black smiddic. 

O'er hurcheoii hides. 
And like stockfish come o'er his studdie 

Wi' thy auld side*! 
He's gane! he's gane! he's fraens torn, 
The ae best fellow e cr was horn ! 
Thee, Matthew. Nature's sel' shall mourn 

By wood and wild, 
Where, haply. Pity strays forlorn, 

Frae man exil'd! 

Ye hills, near ncibours o' the starns, 
That proudly cock your cresting cairns ! 
Ye cliffs, the haunts of sailing yearns, 

Where Echo slumbers ! 
Come join, ye Nature's sturdiest bairns, 
" My wailing numbers! 
I Mourn, ilka grove the cushat kens ! 
[ Ye hazily shaws and briery dens! 



40 BL'liNS' 

Yc burnies wimplin' down your glens, 

WV toddlin din, 
Or foaming Strang, wi' hasty stens, 
Frae lin to lin. 
Mourn, little harebells o'er the lea ; 
Ye stately fox-gloves fair to see ; 
Ye woodbines, hanging bonnilie 
In scented bow'rs: 
Ye roses on your thornv tree. 

The first o*' flow'rs. 
At dawn, -when ev'ry grassy blade 
Droops with a diamond at its head. 
At ev'n, when beans their fragrance shed, 

I' th' rustling gale, 
Ye maukins, whiddin' thro' the glade, 
Come join my wail! 

Mourn ye wee songsters o' the wood ; 

Ye grouse, that crap the heather bud ; 

Ye curlews, calling thro' a clud ; 
Ye whistling plover ; 

And mourn, ye whirring paitrick brood- 
He's gane for ever ! 

Mourn, sooty coots, and speckled teals ; 
Ye fisher herons, watching eels ; 
Ye duck and drake, wi' airy wheels 

Circling the lake ; 
Ye bitterns, till the quagmire reels, 

Kair for his sake ! 

Mourn, clam'ring craiks at close o' da y, 
'Mang fields o' flow'ring clover gay ; 
And when ye wing your annual way 

Frae our cauld shore. 
Tell the far warlds, wha lies in clay, 

Wham we deplore. 

Ye howlets, frae your ivy bow'r, 
In some auld tree, or eldritch tow'r 
What time the moon, wi' silent glow'r, 

Sets up her horn, 
Wail thro' the dreary midnight hour 

Till waukrife morn ! 

O rivers, forests, hills, and plains ! 
Oft have ye heard my canty strains : 
But now, what else for me remains 

But tales of woe ? 
An' frae my e'en the drapping rains 

Maun ever flow. 
Mourn, .Spring, thou darling of the year! 
Ilk cowslip cup shall kep a tear: 
Thou, Simmer, while each corny spear 

Shoots up its head, 
Thy gay, green, flow'ry tresses shear, 

For him that's dead! 

Thou, Autumn, wi' thy yellow hair, 
In grief thy sallow mantle tear ! 
Thou, Winter, burling thro' the air 

The roaring blast, 
Wide o'er the naked world declare 

The worth we've lost! 

Mourn him, thou Sun, great source of ligh 
Mourn, Empress of the silent night ! 
And you, ye twinkling starnies bright, 

My Matthew mourn! 
For through your orbs he's ta'en his flight, 
Ne'er to return. 

O, Henderson! the man! the brother! 
And art thou gone, and gone for ever? 
And hast thou cross'd that unknown river, 

Life's dreary bound ? 
Like thee, where shall I find another, 
The world around y 



of worth ! 
And weep the ae best fellow's fate 
E'er lay in earth. 



POETICAL WOiiKs. 



THE EPITAPH. 

Stop, passenger!— my story's brief, 

And truth I shall relate, man ; 
1 tell nae common tale o' grief— 

For Matthew was a great man. 
If thou uncommon merit hast. 

Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man ; 
A look of pity hither cast— 

For Matthew was a poor man 
If thou a noble sodger art. 

That passest by this grave, man ; 
There moulders here a gallant heart— 

For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways, 
Canst throw uncommon light, man : 

Here lies wha wheel had won thy praise— 
For Matthew was a bright man. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca', 

Wad life itself resign, man; 
Thy sympathetic tear maun fa'— 

For Matthew was a kind man. 

If thou art staunch without a stain, 
Like the unchanging blue, man ; 

This was a kinsman o' thy ain— 
For Matthew was a true man. 

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, 

And ne'er guid wine did fear, man; 
This was thy billie, dam, and sire— 

For Matthew was a queer man. 
If ony whiggish, whingin sot, 

To blame poor Matthew dare, man ; 
May dool and sorrow be his lot— 

For Matthew was a rare man. 



LAMENT OF MARY QUEEN OF SCOTS, 

ON THE APPROACH OF SPRIXG. 

Now Nature hangs her mantle green 

On every blooming tree, 
And spreads her sheets o' daisies white 

Out o'er the grassy lea: 
Now Phoebus cheers the crystal streams, 

And glads the azure skies ; 
But nought can glad the weary wight 

That fast in durance lies. 

Now lav'rocks wake the merry morn, 

Aloft on dewy wing ; 
The. merle, in his noontide bow'r, 

Makes woodland echoes ring ; 
The mavis wild wi' many a note, 

Sings drowsy day to rest : 
In love and freedom they rejoice, 

Wi' care nor thrall opprest. 

Now blooms the lily by the bank, 

The primrose down the brae; 
The hawthorn's budding in the glen, 

And milk-white is the slae : 
The meanest hind in fair Scotland, 

May rove their sweets amang ; 
But L the Queen of a' Scotland, 

Maun lie in prison Strang. 

was the Queen o' bonnie France, 

Where happy I hae been; 
Fu' lightly rase I in the morn, 

As blithe lay down at e'en : 
And I'm the sovereign of Scotland, 

And mony a traitor there ; 
Yet here I 'lie in foreign bands 

And never-ending care. 

But as for thee, thou false woman! 

My sister and my fae, 
Grim vengeance, yet, shall whet a sword 

That thro' thy soul shall gae ! 



LAMENT FOR JAMES, EAEL OF GLENCAIEN. 



The weeping blood in woman's breast 

"Was never known to thee ; 
Nor th' balm that draps on wounds of woe 

Frae woman's pitying e'e. 

My son! my son ! may kinder stars 

Upon thy fortune shine ! 
And may those pleasures gild thy reign, 

That ne'er wad blink on mine ! 
God keep thee frae thy mother's faes, 

Or turn their hearts to thee ; 
And where thou meet'st thy mother's friend, 

Eemember him for me ! 

O ! soon to me, may summer-suns 

Nae mair light up the morn ! 
Nae mair, to me, the autumn winds 

Wave o'er the yellow corn ! 
And in the narrow house o' death 

Let winter round me rave ; 
And the next flow'rs that deck the spring, 

Bloom on my peaceful grace ! 



TO EOBEET GRAHAM, Esq. 

OF FIXTRY. 

Late crippled of an arm, and now a leg, 
About to beg a pass for leave to beg; 
Lull, listless, teas'd, dejected, and deprest, 
(Nature is adverse to a cripple's rest ;) 
Will generous Graham list to his poet's wail ?' 
(It soothes poor misery, hearkening to her tale,) 
And her him curse the light he first survev'd. 
And doubly curse the luckless rhymning trade ? 

Thou, Nature! partial Nature ! I arraign; 
Of thy caprice maternal I complain. 
The lion and the bull thy care have found, 
One shakes the forest, and one spurns the 

ground : 
Thou giv'st the ass his hide, the snail his shell. 
Th' envenom'd wasp, victorious, guards his cell. 
Thy minions, kings, defend, control, devour 
In all the omnipotence of rule and power.— 
Foxes and statesmen, subtile wiles ensure ; 
The cit and polecat stink, and are secure ; 
Toads with their poison, doctors with their drug, 
The priest and hedge-hog in their robes are snug. 
Ev'n silly woman has her warlike arts, 
Her tongue and eyes, her dreaded spear and 
darts. 

But, Oh! thou bitter step-mother and hard, 
To thy poor, fenceless, naked child— the Bard! 
A thing unreachable- in world's skill, 
And half an idiot too, more helpless still. 
No heels to bear him from the opening dun; 
No claws to dig, his hated sight to shim ; 
No horns, but those by luckless Hymen worn, 
And those, alas ! not Amalthea's horn : 
No nerves olfactory. Mammon's trusty cur, 
• Clad in rich dulness' comfortable furl- 
In naked feeling, and in aching pride, 
He bears th' unbroken blast from every side: 
Vampyre booksellers drain him to the heart, 
And scorpion critics cureless venom dart. 

Critics!— appall'd, I venture on the name. 
Those cut-throat bandits in the paths of fame : 
Bloody dissectors, worse than ten Monroes ;<>-» 
He hacks to teach, they mangle to expose. 

His heart by causeless, wanton malice wrung, 
By blockheads' daring into madness stung ; 
Lis well-won bays, than life itself more dear, 
By miscreants torn, who ne'er one sprig must 

wear : 
Foil'd, bleeding, tortur'd. in the unequal strife, 
The hapless poet flounders on through life ; 
Till fled each hope that once his bosom fired. 
And fled each muse that glorious once inspired. 
Low sunk in squalid, unprotected age. 
Lead even resentment, for his injured pa^e. 
He heeds or feels no more the ruthless critic'-; 
rage! 



41 

So, by some hedge, the generous steed de . 
ceased, 
For half-starv'd snarling curs a dainty feast! 
By toil and famine wore to skin and bone, 
Lies senseless of each tugging bitch's son. 

dulness ! portion of the truly hlest ! 
Calm shelter'd haven of eternal rest ! 

Thy sons ne'er madden in the fierce extremes 
Of fortune's polar frost, or torrid beams. 
If mantling high she fills the golden cup, 
With sober selfish ease they sip it up-. 
Conscious the bounteous meed they well de- 
serve, 
They only wonder, ' some folks' do not starve, 
The grave, sage hern thus easy picks his frog, 
And thinks the mallard a sad worthless dog. 
When disappointment snaps the clue of hope, 
Aud thro' disastrous night they darkling grope, 
With deaf endurance sluggishly they bear, 
And just conclude 'that fools are fortune's 

care.' 
So, heavy, passive to the tempest's shocks, 
Strong on the sign-post stands the stupid ox. 

Not so the idle muses' mad-cap train. 
Not such the workings of their moon-struck 

brain ; 
In equanimity they never dwell. 
By turns in soaring heaven, or vaulted hell. 

1 dread thee, Fate, relentless and severe, 
With all a poet's, husband's, father's fear '. 
Already one stronghold of hope is lost, 
Glencairn. the truly noble, lies in dust ; 
(Fled, like the sun eclips'd as noon appears, 
And left us darkling in a world of tears :) 
O! hear my ardent, grateful, selfish pray'r ! 
Fintry, my other stay, long biess and spare ! 
Thro' a long life his hopes and wishes crown, 
And bright in cloudless skies his sun go down! 
May bliss domestic smooth his private path; 
Give energy to life; and soothe his latest 

breath, 
With many a filial tear circling the bed of 
death ! 



LAMENT FOE JAMES. EAEL OF GLEN- 
CAIRN. 
The wind blew hollow frae the hills, 

By fits the sun's departing beam, 
Look'd on the fading yellow woods 

That wav'd o'er Lngar's winding stream : 
Beneath acraigy steep, a bard. 

Laden with years and meikle pain 
In loud lament bewail'd his lord, 

Whom death had all untimely ta'en. 
He lean'd him to an ancient aik. 

Whose trunk was mould ring down with years; 
His locks were bleached white wi' time, 

His hoary cheek was wet wi' tears ! 
And as he touch'd his trembling harp, 

And as he tun d his doleful sang. 
The winds, lamenting thro' their caves, 

To echo bore the notes alang. 

" Ye scatter'd birds that faintly sing. 

The relics of the vernal quire! 
Ye woods that shed on a" the winds 

The honours of the aged year! 
A few short month-, and glad and gaj', 

Again yell charm the ear and e'e , 
But noclit in all revolving time 

Can gladness bring again to me. 
" I am a bending aged tree, 

That long has stood the wind and rain ; 
But now has come a cruel blast, 

And my last hald of earth is gane: 
Nae leaf o' mine shall greet the spring, 

Nae simmer sun exalt my bloom ; 
But I maun lie before the storm, 

And ithers plant them in my room. 



42 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS 



"I've seen sac mony changefu' years, 

On earth I am a stranger grown; 
I wander in the ways of men, 

Alike unknowing and unknown: 
Unheard, unpitied, unreliev'd, 

I bearalane my lade o' care, 
Tor silent, low on beds of dust, 

Lie a' that would my sorrows share. 
"And last, (the sum of a' my griefs I) 

My noble tnaster lies in clay : 
The flow'r amang our barons bold, 

His country's pride, his country's stay 
In weary being now I pine, 

For a' the life of life is dead, 
And hope has left my aged ken. 

On forward wing for ever fled. 
" Awake thy last sad voice, my harp, 

The sound of woe and wild despair; 
Awake, resound thy latest lay, 

Then sleep in silence evermair ! 
And thou, my last, best, only friend, 

That fillest an untimely tomb, 
Accept this tribute from the bard 

Thou brought from fortune's mirkest gloom. 

" In poverty's low barren vale ; 

Thick mists, obscure, involv'd me round* 
Tho oft I turn'd the wistful eye, 

Nae ray of fame was to be found : 
Thou found'st me like the morning sun 

That melts the fogs in limpid ail', 
The friendless bard and rustic song. 

Became alike thy fostering care. 

" O ! why has worth so short a date ? 

While villains ripen grey with time 
Must thou, the noble, gen'rous, great. 

Fall in bold manhood's hardy prime V 
Why did I live to see that day ? 

A day to me so full of woe ! 
O ! had I met the mortal shaft 

Which laid my benefactor low! 

"The bridegroom may forget the bride 

Was made his wedded wife yestreen ; 
The monarch may forget the crown 

That on his head an hour has been; 
The mother may forget the child 

That smiles so sweetly on her knee ; 
But I'll remember thee, Glencairn, 

And a' that thou hast done for me !" 



Thou, who thy honour as thy God rever'st, 
Who, save thy mind's reproach, nought earthly 

fear'st, 
To thee this votive offering I impart, 
"The tearful tribute of a broken heart." 
The friend thou valued'st, I the patron loved ; 
His worth, his honour, all the world approv'd. 
"We'll mourn till we, too, go as he is gone, 
And tread the dreary path to that dark world 

unknown. 



TAM O' SIIANTER: 

A TALIS. 

Of Brownyis and of Bogilis full is this Rnke. 
—damn Dowjlas. 

When chapman billies leave the street, 
And drouthy neibours, neibours meet, 
As market-days are wearing late, 
An' folk begin'to tak the gate ; 
While we set bousing at the nappy, 
An' prcttin' fou and unco happy, 
We think na on the lang Scots miles, 
The mosses, waters, slaps, and styles, 



That lie between us and our hamc, 
Whare sits our sulky, sullen dame, 
Gathering her brows like gathering storm, 
Nursing her wrath to keep it warm 

This truth fand honest Tam o' Shanter, 
As he frae Ayr ae night did canter, 
(Auld Ayr, wham ne'er a town surpasses, 
For honest men and bonny lasses.) 

Tam ! had'st thou but been sac wise, 
As ta'en thy ainwife Kate's advice! 
She tauld thee weel thou was a skcllum. 
A blethering, blustering, drunken blellum ; 
That frae November till October, 
Ae market-day thou was na sober; 
That ilka melder, wi' the miller, 
Thou sat as lang as thou had siller ; 
That ev'ry naig was ca'd a shoe on, 
The smith and thee gat roaring fou on ; 
That at the Lord's house, ev'n on Sunday, 
Thou drank wi' Kirkton Jean till Monday. 
She prophesy'd, that late or soon, 
Thou would be found deep drown'd in Boon ; 
Or catched wi' warlocks in the mirk, 
By Alloway's auld haunted kirk. 

Ah, gentle dames! it gars me greet, 
To think how mony counsels sweet, 
How mony lengthen'd sage advices. 
The husband frae the wife despises ! 

But to our tale :— Ae market night 
Tam had got planted, unco right ; 
Fast by an ingle, bleezing finely, 
Wi' reaming swats, that drank divinely 
And at his elbow, Souter Johnny, 
His ancient, trusty, drouthy crony; 
Tam lo'ed him like a vera brither ; 
They had been fou for weeks thegither ! 
The night drive on wi' sangs an clatter ; 
And aye the ale was growing better: 
The landlady and Tam grew gracious, 
Wi' favours, secret, sweet, and precious ; 
The Souter tauld his queerest stories; 
The landlord's laugh was ready chorus: 
The storm without might rair and rustle- 
Tarn did na mind the storm a whistle. 

Care, mad to see a man sae happy, 
E'en drown'd himself amang the nappy! 
As bees flee hame w r i' loads o' treasure, 
The minutes wing'd their way wi' pleasure: 
Kings may be blest, but Tam was glorious, 
O'er a' the ills o' life victorious ! 

But pleasures are like poppies spread, 
You seize the flower, its bloom is shed ! 
Or like the snow-falls in the river, 
A moment white-then melts for ever ; 
Or like the borealis race. 
That flits ere you can point their place ; 
Or like the rainbaw's lovely form 
K vanishing amid the storm. — 
Nae man can tether time or tide : 
The hour approaches Tam maun ride : 
That hour, o' night's black arch the key-stanc, 
That dreary hour he mounts his beast in ; 
And sic a night he taks the road in, 
As ne'er poor sinner was abroad in. 

The wind blew as 'twad blawn its last; 
The rattlin' showers rose on the blast: 
Tho speedy gleams the darkness swallow'd ; 
Loud, deep, and lang, the thunder bellow'd; 
That night a child might understand, 
-The deil had business on his hand. 

AVeel mounted on his grey mare, Meg— 
A better never lifted leg- 
Tarn Skelpit on thro' dub and mire, 
Despising wind, and rain and fire ; 
Whiles holding fast his guid blue bennet; 
Whiles crooning o'er some auld Scot's sonnet; 
Whiles glow'ring round wi' prudent cares, 
Lest bogles catch him unawares ; 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY ME. 



fcirk-Allowa.V was drawing nigh, 
Whare ghaists and houiets nightly cry-~ 

Bj- this time he was cross the ford, 
Whare in the snaw the chapman smoor'd ; 
And past the birks and raeikle stane, 
"Whare drncken Charlie brak 's neck-bane ; 
And thro' the whins, and by the cairn, 
Whare hunters land the murder'd bairn ; 
And near the thorn, aboon the well, 
Whare Mango's rnither hang'd hersel.— 
Before him Doon pours all his floods ; 
The doubling storm^roars thro' the woods; 
The lightnings flash from pole to pole ; 
Near and more near the thunders roll ; 
When glimmering thro' the groaning trees, 
Kirk-Alloway seem'd in a bleeze; 
Thro' ilka bore the beams were glancing, 
And loud resounded mirth and dancing — 

Inspiring bold John Barleycorn ! 
What dangers thou canst make us scorn! 
Wi' tippenny, we fear nae evil; 
Wi' usqueba'e we'll face the devil!— 
The swats sae ream'd in Taminie's noddle, 
Fair play, he cared n'a deils a boddle. 
But Maggie stood right sair astonish'd, 
Till, by the heel and hand admonish'd, 
She ventured forward on the light ; 
And, wow ! Tarn saw an unco sight! 
Warlocks and witches in a dance ; 
Nae cotillon brent new frae France, 
But hornpipes, jigs, strathspeys, and reels, 
Put life and mettle in their heels. 
A winnock-bunker in the east. 
There sat auld Nick in shape o' beast; 
A towzie tyke, black, grim, and large, 
To gie them music was his charge: 
He screw'd his pipes and cart them skirl, 
Till roof and rafters a' did cNrl.— 
Coffins stood round like open presses. 
That shaw'd the dead in their last dresses; 
And by some devilish cantrip slight, 
Each in its cauld hand held a light,— 
By which heroic Tarn was able 
To note upon the haly table, 
A murderer's banes in gibbet aims: 
Twa span-lang, wee unchristen'd bairns: 
A thief new-cutted frae a rape, 
Wi' his last gasp his gab did gape : 
Five tomahawks, wi' blude red-rusted ; 
Five scimitars, wi' murder crusted; 
A garter which a babe had strangled: 
A knife, a father s throat had mangled, 
Whom his ain son o' life bereft. 
The gray hairs yet stuck to the heft ; 
Wi' mair o' horrible and awfu' 
Which ev'n to name wad be unlawfu'. 

As Tammie glowr'd, amaz'i and curious, 
The mirth and fun grew fast and furious : 
The piper loud and louder blew ; 
The dancers quick and quicker flew: 
Thev reel'd, thev set, thev cross'd, they cleckit, 
Till ilka carlin swat and reekit, 
And coost her daddies to the wark, 
And linkit at it in her sark ! 

Now Tam, O Tarn! had they been queans 

A' plump an' strapping, in their teens ; 

Their sarks, instead o' creeshie flannen. 

Been snaw-white seventeen-hunder linnen: 

Thir breeks o' mine, mv onlv pair. 

That ance were plush 6" gnid bine hair, 

I wad hae gi'cn them aft" mv hurdles! 

For ae blink o' the bonnie burdies! 

But wither'd beldams auld and droll, 

Rigwoodie hags wad spean a foal, 

Lowping and flinging on a crnmmock 

I wonder didna turn thy stomach- 
But Tam kenn'd what was what fu' brawlic ; 

There was ae winsome wench and walie. 

That night enlisted in the core, 

(Lang after kenn'd on Carrick shore ; 



For niony a beast to dead she shot, 
And perish'd mony a bonnie boat, 
And shook baith meikle corn and bear, 
And kept the country side in fear,) 
Her cutty sark o' Paisley harn, 
That while a lassie she had worn. 
In longitude though sorely scanty. 
It was her best, and she was vauntie,— 
Ah! little kenn'd thy reverend grannie. 
That sark she coft for her wee Nannie, 
Wi' twa pund Scots, (twas a' her riches,) 
Wad ever grac d a dance of witches ! 

But here my muse her wing maun cour, 
Sic flights are far beyond her pow'r : 
To sing how Nannie lap and flang, 
(A souple jade she was and Strang) 
And how Tam stood, like ane bewitch'd, 
And thought his very een enrich'd: 
Even Satan glow'red and fidg'd fu' fain, 
And hotch*d and blew wi' might and main, 
Till first ae caper, syne anither, 
Tam tint his reason a' thegither. 
And roars out, " Weel done. Cutty sark !" 
And in an instant all was dark ; 
And scarcely had he Maggie rallied, 
When out the hellish legion sallied. 

As bees bizz out wi' angry fyke. 
When plundering herds assail "their bvkc ; 
As open pussie's mortal foes. 
When, pop ! she starts before their nose ; 
As eager runs the market crowds? 
When " Catch the thief !"' resounds aloud ; 
So Maggie runs, the witches follow, 
Wi' monie an eldritch screech and hollow. 

Ah, Tam! Ah, Tam! thou'll get thy fairin ! 
In hell thev'll roast thee like a herrin! 
In vain thy Kate awaits thy comin ! 
Kate soon will be a woefu' woman ! 
Now, do thy speedv utmost, Meg, 
And win the kev stances of the brig ; 
There at them thou thy tail may toss, 
A running stream thev dare na cross ! 
But ere the kev-stane she could make, 
The fient a tail" she had to shake ! 
For Nannie, far before the rest, 
Hard upon noble Maggie prest, 
And flew at Tam wi' fnrioos ettle ; 
But little wist she Maggie's mettle — 
Ae spring brought aff her master hale, 
But left behind her ain grev tail : 
The carline claught her bv the rump, 
And left poor Maggie scarce a stump. 

Now. wha this tale o' truth shall read, 
Ilk man and mother's son take heed ; 
Whene'er to drink you are inclin'd, 
Or cntty-sarks run in your mind. 
Think ye may buy the joys o'er dear— 
Remember Tam o' Shanter's mare. 



ON SEEING A WOUNDED HARE LIMP BY 
ME, 

WHICH A FELT.OW HAD JUST SHOT AT. 

Inhuman man ! curse on thy barb'rons art, 
And blasted be thv murder-aiming eye : 
May ncvei pity soothe thee with a si'gh, 

Nor ever pleasure glad thy cruel heart! 

Go live, poor wanderer of the wood and field, 
The bitter little thatof life remains: 
Is'o more the thickening brakes and verdant 
plains, 

To thee shall home, or food, or pastime yield. 

Seek, mangled wretch, some place of wonted 
rest. 

No more of rest, but now thv dying bed ! 

The sheltering rushes whistling o'er thy head, 
The cold earth With thy bloody bosom prest. 



Oft as by winding Kith, I musing wait 
The sober eve, or hail the cheerful dawn, 
I'll miss thee sporting o'er the dewy lawn. 

And curse the ruffian's aim, and mourn thy hap- 
less fate. 



ADDBESS TO THE SHADE OF THOMSON, 

OX CROWNING HIS BUST AT EDXAM, EOX- 

BUBGSHIBE, WITH BAY?. 

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood, 

Unfolds her tender mantle green, 
Or pranks the sod in frolic mood. 

Or tunes iEolian strains between : 
"While Summer, with a matron grace, 

Retreats to Drybnrgh's cooling shade, 
Yet oft. delighted, stops to trace 

The progress of the spiky blade : 

"While Autumn, benefactor kind. 

By Tweed erects his aged head. 
And sees, with self-approving mind. 

Each creature on his bounty fed : 
While maniac "Winter rages o'er 

The hills whence classic Yarrow flows, 
Bousing the turbid torrent's roar. 

Or sweeping, wild, a waste of snows ; 
So long, sweet Poet of the year, 

Shall bloom that wreath, thou well hast won : 
While Scotia, with excluding tear, 

Proclaims that Thomson was her son. 

EPITAPHS. 

ON A CELEBBATED BULLNG ELDEB. 

Here sorter Hood in death does sleep- 
To hell, if he's gane thither, 

Satan, gie him thv gear to keep, 
He'll hand it weel thegither 

OX A NOISY POLEMIC. 
Below these stanes lie Jamie's banes : 

O Death, it's my opinion. 
Thou ne'er took such a bleth'rin bitch 

Into thy dark dominion ! 

OX WEE JOHNNY 

Ilkjacet wee Johnnie. 

Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know. 

That death has murder'd Johnny, 

An' here his body lies fu' low— 

For saul, he ne'er had ony 

FOB THE AUTHOBS FATHEK. 
O TE whose cheek the tear of pity stains. 

Draw near with pious rev'rence and attend ! 
Here lie the loving husband's dear remains. 

The tender father and the gen'rous friend. 
The pitying" heart that felt for' human woe: 

The dauntless heart that fear'd no human 
pride ; 
The friend of man. to vice alone a foe : 

•• For ev'n his failings leaned to virtue's side." 

FOB It. AIKEN, Esq. 
KjiOW thou. O stranger to the fame 
Of this much lov'd, much honour'd name ! 
(For none that knew him need be told) 
A warmer heart death ne'er made cold. 

FOB GAVIN HAMILTON. jEsg. 
The poor man weeps— here Gavin sleeps, 

Whom canting wretches blam'd: 
But with such as he— where'er lie lie. 

May 1 be saved or damn'd ! 



BURNS' POETICAL WORK.*. 

A BARD'S EPITAPH. 
Is there a whim-inspired fool, 
Owrc fast for thought, owre hot for rule, 
Owre blate to seek, owre prov.d to snool, 

Let him draw near ; 
And owre this grassy heap sing dool, 
And drap a tear. 



Is there a bard of rustic song, 
Who, noteless, steals the crowd among, 
That weekly this area throng. 

O, pass not by ! 
But, with a frater-feeling strong. 
. Here heave a sigh. 

Is there a man, whose judgment clear, 
Can others teach the course to steer, 
Yet runs, himself, life's mad career, 

Wild as the wave : 
Here pause— and, through the starting tear, 
Survey this grave. 

The poor inhabitant below. 
Was quick to learn and wise to know, 
And keenly felt the friendly glow, 

And sober flame : 
But thoughtless follies laid him low. 

And stain'd his name ! 
Reader, attend— whether thy soul 
Soars fancy's flights beyond the pole, 
Of darkly grubs this earthly hole. 

In low pursuit : 
Know, prudent, cautious, self-control, 

Is wisdom's root. 

ON THE LATE CAPTAIN GBOSE S 

PEREGRINATIONS THROUGH SCOTLAND, COLLECTIXO} 
THE ANTIQUITIES OF THAT KINGDOM. 

Hear. Land o' Cakes, and blither Scots, 
Frae Maidenkirk to Johnnv Groat's; 
If there's a hole in a' your coats. 

I rede you tent it : 
A chield's amang you. taking notes. 

And, faith, he'll prent it. 

If in your bounds ye chance to light 
Upon a fine, fat fodgel wight, 
O' stature short, but genius bright. 

That's he. mark weel - 
And wow ! he has an unco slight 

O' cauk and keel. 
By some auld. honlet-haunted biggin. 
Or kirk, deserted by its riggin, 
It's ten to ane ye'll find him snug in 

Some eldrich part. 
Wi deils, they say, Lord save's ! colleaguin' 

At some black art. 
Ilk ghaist that haunts auld ha' or chaumer, 
Ye gipsev-gang that deal in glamour. 
And yoif deep-read in hell's black grammar, 

Warlocks and witches ; 
Ye'll quake at his conjuring hammer. 

Ye midnight bitches. 
It's tauld. he was a sodger bred. 
And ane wad rather fa'n than fled ; 
But now he's quat the spurtle blade. 

And dog-skin wallet, 
And ta'en the Antiquarian trade. 

I think they call it. 
He has a fouth o' auld nick nackcts : 
Busty aim raps and jinglin' jackets, 
Wad'haud the Lothians three in tackets, 

A towmont guid: 
And parritch-pafs, and auld saut-backets, 

Before the Flood. 
Of Eve's first fire he has a cinder : 
Auld Tubal Cain's fire-shool and fender; 
That which distinguished the gender 

O' Balaam's ass; 
A broom-stick o' the witch of Endor. 

Weel shod wi' brass. 



HUMBLE PETITION OF BKUAR WATER. 



Forbye he'll shape yon aff, fu' gleg, 
The cut of Adam's pliilibeg. 
The knife that nicket Abel's craig. 

He'll prove you fully, 
It was a faulding jocteleg, 

Or lang-kail gullie. 

But wad ye sec him in his glee, 
For meikle*glee and fun has he, 
Then set him down, and twa or three 

Guid fellows wi' him ; 
And port, O port ! shine thou a wee, 

And then ye'll see him I 
Now, bv the pow'rs o' verse and prose I 
Thou art a dainty chiel, O Grose ! 
Whae'er o' thee shall ill suppose. 

They sair misca' thee ; 
I'd take the rascal bv the nose, 

Wad say, .Shame fa' thee : 

TO MISS CKUIKSHANKS,96 

A VEKV YOUNG LADY, WR1TTEX OX THE BLANK 
LEAF OF A BOOK,' PRESENTED TO HE It BV THE 
AUTHOR. 

Beauteous rose-bud. young and gay, 
Blooming on thy early May. 
Never may'st thou, lovely flow'r. 
Chilly shrink in sleety show'r '. 
Never Boreas' hoary path. 
Never Earns" pois'nous breath. 
Never baleful stellar lights. 
Taint thee with untimely blights '. 
Never, never reptile thief 
Riot on thy virgin leaf ! 
Nor ever Sol too fiercely view 
Thy bosom blushing stiil with dew ! 
May'st thou long, sweet crimson geui, 
Richly deck thy native stem; 
Till some ev'ning. sober, calm. 
Dropping dews, and breathing balm. 
While all around the woodland rings, 
And ev'ry bird thy requiem sings; 
Thou, amid the dirgeful sound, 
Shed thy dyin.4 honours round, 
And resign to parent earth 
The loveliest form she e'er gave birth. 

SON G. 
Anna, thy charms my bosom riiv. 

And waste my soul with care ; 
But, ah ! how bootless to admire, 

When fated to despair! 
Yet in thy presence, lovely Fair. 

To hope may be f orgiv'n ; 
For sure 'twere impious to despair, 

So much in sight of Heav'n. 

OX READIXG, IX A NEWSPAPER, 

THE DEATH OF JOHN JM'LEOD, ESQ 

BROTHER TO A YOUXG LADY, A PARTICULAR FRIEXD 
OF THE AUTHOR'S. 

Sad thy tale, thou idle page, 

And rueful thy alarms : 
Death tears the brother of her love 

From Isabella's arms. 
Sweetly deck'd with pearly dew 

The morning rose may blow ; 
But cold successive noontide blasts 

3Iay lay its beauties low. 

Fair on Isabella's morn 

The snn propitious smil'd : 
But long ere noon, succeeding clouds 

Succeeding hopes beguil'd. 
Fate oft tears the bosom chords 

That nature finest strung: 
So Isabella's Heart was form'd. 

And so that heart was rung. 



Dread Omnipotence, alone, 

Can heal the wound he gave : 
Can point the brimful grief-worn eyes 

To scenes beyond the grave. 
Virtue's blossoms there shall blow, 

And fear no withering blast : 
There Isabella's spotless worth 

Shall happy be at last. 



HUMBLE PETITION OF BRUAR WATERS" 

TO THE XOBLE DUKE OF ATHOLE. 

My Lord, I know your noble ear 

Woe ne'er assails in vain; 
Embolden'd thus, I beg you'll hear 

Your humble slave complain. 
How saucy Phoebus' scorching beams. 

In flaming summer-pride, 
Dry-withering, waste my foaming streams, 

And drink my crystal tide. 

The lightly- jumpin' glowrin' fronts, 

That thro' my waters play, 
If, in their random, wanton spouts. 

They near the margin stray ; 
If, hapless chance ! they linger lang, 

I'm scorching up to shallow. 
They're left the whitening stanes amang, 

In gasping death to wallow. 

Last day I grat, wi' spite and teen, 

As poet Burns came by, 
That, to a bard I should be seen 

Wi' half my channel dry ; 
A panegyric rhyme, 1 ween, 

Even as I was he shor'd me : 
But had I in my glory been, 

He, kneeling, wad ador'd me. 

Here, foaming down the shelvy nocks, 

In twisting strength I rin; 
There, high my boiling torrent smokes, 

Wild roaring o'er a linn : 
Enjoying large each spring and well, 

As nature gave them me, 
I am, idtho I say't mysel, 

Worth gaun a mile to see. 

Would then my noble master please 

To grant my highest wishes, 
He'll shade my banks wi' tow'rin' trees, 

And bonnie spreading bushes; 
Delighted doubly then, my Lord, 

You'll wander on my banks, 
And listen mony a grateful bird 

Return you tuneful thanks. 

The sober laverock warbling wild. 

Shall to the skies aspire ; 
The gowdspink, music's gayest child, 

Shail sweetlv join the choir : 
The blackbird'strong, the lintwhitc clear, 

The mavis wild and mellow; 
The robin pensive autumn cheer, 

In all her locks of yellow. 

This, too. a covert shall insure. 

To shield them from the storm ; 
And coward maukin sleep secure, 

Low in her grassv form ; 
Here shall the shepherd make his seat, 

To weave his crown of flowers ; 
Or find a shelt'ring safe retreat, 

From prone descending showers. 

And here, by sweet endearing stealth, 

Shall meet the loving pair, 
DesDising worlds with all their wealth 

As empty idle care : 
The flow'rs shall vie in all their charms 

The hour of heav n to grace, 
And birks extend their fragrant arms 

To screen the dear embrace. 



BURKS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Here, haply too. at vernal dawn, 

.Some musing bard may stray. 
And eye the smoking, dewy lawn, 

And misty mountain, grey ; 
Or. by the reaper's nightly beam, 

Mild-chequering thro' the trees, 
Rave to my darkly dashing stream, 

Hoarse-swelling on the breeze. 
Let lofty firs, and ashes cool, 

My lowly banks o'erspread, 
And view, deep-bending in the pool, 
.Their shadows' watery bed! 
Let fragrant birks in woodbines drest, 

My craggy cliffs adorn ; 
And, for the little songster's nest, 

The close embow'ring thorn. 

So may old Scotia's darling hope, 

Your little angel band, 
Spring, like their fathers, up to prop 

Their honour'd native land ! 
So may, thro' Albion's farthest ken, 

To social flowing glasses, 
The grace be— " Athole's honest men, 

And Athole's bonnie lasses." 



ON SCARING SOME WATER-FOWL, 

IN LOCH-TCRIT; 
A WILD SCENE AMONG THE HILLS OF OCHTERTYRE. 

Why, ye tenants of the lake, 

For me your watery haunt forsake ? 

Tell me, fellow-creatures, why 

At my presence thus you fly ? 

Why disturb your social joys, 

Parent, filial, kindred ties ?— 

Common friend to you and me, 
i Nature's gifts to all are free : 

Peaceful keep your dimpling wave, 

Busy feed, or wanton lave ; 

Or, beneath the sheltering rock, 
, Bide the surging billow's shock. 
i Conscious, blushing for our race, 

i Soon, too soon, your fears I trace. 

Man, your proud, usurping foe, 
'• Would be lord of all below ; 
'-■ Plumes himself in Freedom's pride, 

Tyrant stern of all beside. 
., The eagle, from the cliffy brow, 

• Marking you his prey below, 

In his breast no pity dwells, 

Strong necessity compels. 

But man. to whom alone is giv'n 

A ray direct from pitying heav'n, 

Glorious in his heart humane— 

And creatures for his pleasure slain. 

In these savage, liquid plains, 
Only known to wand ring swains, 
Where the mossy riv'let strays; 
Far from human haunts and ways ; 
All on nature you depend, 
And life's poor season peaceful spend. 

Or. if man's superior might, 
Dare invade your native right, 
On the lofty ether borne 
Man with all his pow'rs you scorn; 
Swiftly seek, on clanging wings, 
Other lakes and other springs ; 
And the foe you cannot brave, 
Scorn at least to be his slave. 

WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL 

OVER THE CHIMNEY- 1'IECE IN THE PARLOUR OF 

THE INN AT KENMOUE, TAYMOUTH 

Admiring Nature in her wildest grace, 
These northern scenes with weary feet I trace ; 
O'er many a winding dale and painful steep. 
Th' abodes of covey'd grouse and timid sheep, 



My savage journey, curious, I pursue, 
Till fam'd Breadalbane opens to my view— 
The meeting cliffs each deep-sunk glen divides, 
The woods, wild-scatter'd, clothe their ample 

sides, 
Th' outstretching lake, embosom'd 'mong the 

hills, 
The eves with wonder and amazement fills; 
The lay, meand ring sweet in infant pride, 
The palace rising on its verdant side, 
The lawns wood-fringed iuNature's native taste; 
The hillocks dropt in Nature's careless haste ! 
The arches striding o'er the new-borne stream ; 
The village, glittering in the moontide beam- 



Poetic ardours in my bosom sweu, 

Lone wandering by the hermit's mossy cell: 

The sweeping theatre of hanging woods ; 

The incessant roar of headlong tumbling floods- 



Here Poesy might wake her heav'n-taught lyre, 
And look through nature with creative fire: 
Here, to the wrongs of fate half reconcil'd, 
Misfortune's lighten'd steps might wander wild ; 
And Disappointment, in these lonely bounds, 
Find balm to sooth her bitter rankling wounds; 
Here heart-struck Grief might heaven-ward 

stretch her scan, 
And injur'd Worth forget and pardon man. 



WRITTEN WITH A PENCIL, 

STANDING BY THE FALLS OF FYERS, NEAR LOCH- 

NESS. 

Among the heathy hills and ragged woods 
The roaring Fyers pours his mossy floods ; 
Till full he dashes on the rocky mounds, 
Where, thro' a shapeless breach, his stream re- 
sounds. 
As high in air the bursting torrents flow, 
As deep recoiling surges foam below, 
Prone down the rock the whitening shoot 

descends, 
And viewless echo's ear, astonish'd rends. 

Dim-seen, through rising mists, and careless 

showers, 
The hoary cavern, wide-surrounding, lowers. 
Still thro' the gap the struggling river toils, 
And still below, the horrid cauldron boils— 



ON THE BIRTH OF A 

POSTHUMOUS CHILD, 

BORN IN PECULIAR CIRCUMSTANCES OF FAMILY 
DISTRESS 

Sweet Flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love. 
d o' mony a prayer, 



W 



And v 

heart o' stane wad thou na move, 
Sac helpless, sweet, and fair ! 



November hirples o'er the lea, 

Chill on thy lovely form ; 
And gane, alas! the shelt'ring tree, 

Should shield thee frae the storm. 

May He who gives the rain to pour, 
And wings the blast to blaw, 

Protect thee frae the driving shower, 
The bitter frost and snaw! 

May lie, the friend of woe and want, 
Who heals life's various stounds, 

Protect and guard the mother plant, 
And heal her cruel wounds ! 

But late she nourish'd, rooted fast 



r morn : 

v feebly bends she in the blast, 
Unshelter'd and forlorn. 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE. 



Blest be thy bloom, thou lovely gem, 

Unseath'd by ruffian hand! 
And from thee many a purent stem 

Arise to deck our land ! 

THE WHISTLE: 

A BALLAD. 

As the authentic prose history of the Whistle 
is curious, I shall here give it.— In the train of 
Anne of Denmark, when she came to Scotland 
with our James the Sixth, there came over also 
a Danish gentleman of gigantic stature and 
great prowess, and a [matchless champion of 
Bacchus. He had a little ebony Whistle which, 
at the commencement of the orgies, he laid on 
the table, and whoever was last able to blow it, 
everybody else being disabled by the potency of 
the bottle, was to carry off the Whistle as a 
trophy of victory. The Dane produced creden- 
tials of his victories without a single defeat, at 
the courts of Copenhagen, Stockholm, Moscow, 
Warsaw, and several of the petty courts in 
Germany; and challenged the Scots Baccha- 
nalians to the alternative of trying his prowess, 
or else of acknowledging their inferiority. After 
many overthrows on the part of the Scots, the 
Dane was encountered by Sir Robert Lawrie. of 
Maxwelton, ancestor to the present worthy 
baronet of that name : who, after three days and 
three nights' hard contest, left the Scandinavian 
under the table, 

And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 

Sir Walter, son to Sir Robert before men- 
tioned, afterwards lost the Whistle to Walter 
Riddel, of Clenriddel. who had married a sister 
of Sir Walter's. -On Friday, the 16th of October, 
1790, at Friars-Carse, the Whistle was once more 
contended for, as related in the ballad, by the 
present Sir Robert Lawrie, of Maxwelton ; 
Robert Riddel, Esq., of Clenriddel, lineal descen- 
dant and representative of Walter Riddel, who 
won the Whistle, and in whose family it had 
continued; and Alexander Ferguson, Esq., of 
Craigdarroch, likewise- descended of the groat 
Sir Robert ; which last gentleman carried off the 
hard-won honours of the field. 
I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth, 
1 sing of a Whistle, the pride of the North, 
Was brought to the court of our good Scottish 



king 



shall 



And long with this Whistle all Scotland 
ring. 

Old Lodass still racing the arm of Fingal, 
The god of the bottle sends down from his hall— 
'• This Whistle's your challenge, to Scotland get 
o'e, 

[•ne'er see me 



Old poets have sung, and old chronicles tell, 
What champions ventur'd, what champions fell; 
The son of great Loda was conqueror still. 
And blew on the Whistle his requiem shrill. 

Till Robert, the [lord of the Cairn and the 
Scarr, 
Unmatched at the bottle, unconquer'd in war, 
He drank his poor god-ship as deep as the sea- 
No tide of the Baltic e'er drunker than he. 

Thus Robert, victorious, the trophy has 
gain'd ! 
Which now in his house has for ages remain'd ; 
Till three noble chieftains, and all of liis blood, 
The jovial contest again have renew'd. 

Three joyous good fellows, with hearts clear of 

flaw; 
Craigdarroch, so famous for wit. worth, and 

law; 
And trusty Clenriddel, so skidd in old coins ; 
And gallant Sir Robert, deep read in old wines. 



Craigdarroch began, with a tongue smooth as 

oil, 
Desiring Clenriddel to yield up the spoil ; 
Or else he would muster the heads of the clan, . 
And once more, in claret, try which was the 

man. 
" By the gods of the ancients," Clenriddel re- 
plies, 
"Before I surrender so glorious a prize, 
I'll conjure the ghost of the great Rorie More, 99 
And bumper his horn with him twenty times o'er." 
Sir Robert, a soldier, no speech could pretend, 
But he ne'er turn'd his back on his foe— or his 

friend. 
Said, Toss down the Whistle, the prize of the 

field, 
And knee-deep in claret, he'd die cr he'd yield. 
To the board of Clenriddel our heroes repair, 
So noted for drowning of sorrow and care : 
But for wine and for welcome not more known 

to fame, 
Than the sense, wit, and taste, of a sweet lovely 

dame. 

A bard was selected to witness the fray : 
And tell future ages the feasts of the day; 
A bard who detested all sadness and spleen, 
And wish'd that Parnassus a vineyard had been. 

The dinner being over, the claret they ply, 
And ev'ry new cork is a new spring of joy, 
In the bands of old frisndslnp and kindred so set. 
And the bands grew the tighter the more they 
were wet. - 

Cay pleasure ran riot as bumpers ran o'er; 
Bright Phoebus ne'er witness d so joyous a core, 
And vowed that to leave them he was quite for- 
lorn, 
Till Cynthia hinted he'd see them next morn. 

Six bottles arpiece had well wore out the 
night, 
When gallant Sir Robert, to finish the fight, 
Turn'd o'er in one bumper a bottle of red, 
And swore 'twas the way that their ancestors 
did. 

Then worthy Clenriddel. so cautious and sage, 
No longer the warfare, ungodly, would wage ; 
A high-ruling Elder to wallow in wine I 
He left the toul business to folks less divine. 

The gallant Sir Robert fought hard to the end; 
But who can with fate and quart bumpers con- 
tend? 
Though fate said— a hero should perish in light : 
So uprose bright Phoebus— and down fell the 
knight. 

Next uprose our bard, ! like a prophet in drink;— 
" Craigdarroch, thon'lt soar when creation shall 

sink ; 
Rut if thou would flourish immortal in rhyme. 
Come— one bottle more— and have at the sub- 

" Thy line, that have straggled for Freedom 

with Brace, 
Shall heroes and patriots ever produce: 
So thine be the laurel, and mine be the bay; 
The field thou hast won, by yon bright god of 

day 1" 



SECOND EPISTLE TO DAVIE, 

A BROTHER POET 100 
ACLD NEEBOR,— 

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor, 
For your aukl farrent, frien'lv letter; 
Tho' I maun say't, I doubt ye flatter. 

Ye speak so fair. 
For my pair, silly, rhyniin' clatter. 

Some less maun sair. 



BUitNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Hale be your heart, hale be your riddle; 
Lang may your elbuck jink and diddle. 
Tae cheer you through the weary widdle 

O' war'ly cares, 
Till bairns.' bairns kindly cuddle 

Your auld grey hairs. 
But. David lad, I'll red ye'er glaikit ; 
I'm fauld the Muse ye nae negleckit ; 
An' gif it's sae, ye sud be lickit 

Until ye fyke ; 
Sic hauns as von sud ne'er be faikit. 

Be hain't wha like. 
For me, I'm on Parnassus' brink, 
Rivin' the words tae gar them clink ; 
Whyles daez't wi' love, whyles daez"t wi' tir 

Wi' jauds or masons ; 
An' whyles, but aye owre late, I think, 

Braw sober lessons. 

Of a' the thoughtless sons o' man, 
Commen" me to the bardie clan ; 
Except it be some idle plan 

O' rhymih' clink, 
The devil-hae't, that 1 sud ban, 

They ever think, 

Nae thonght, nae view, nae scheme of livin' ; 
Xae cares to gie us joy or grievin' ; 
But just the pouchie put the nieve in, 

An" while ought's there, 
Then, hiltie skiltie, we gae scrievin', 

An' fash nae mair. 
Leeze me on rhyme ! its aye a treasure, 
My chief, arnaist my only pleasure, 
At hame, a-fiel', at wark or leisure, 

The Muse, poor hizzie. 
Tlio' rough an' raplock be her measure, 

She's seldom lazy. 
Haiid to the Muse, my dainty Davie 
The waii* may play yoix mony a shavie ; 
But for the Muse, she'll ne'er leave ye, 

Tho' e'er sae poor, 
Xa, even tho' limpiir wi' the spavie 

Frae door to door. 

HAPPY FRIENDSHIP. 
Here around the ingle bleczing, 

Wha sae happy and sae free ; 
Though the northern wind blaws freezing, 

Frien'ship warms baith you and me. 

CHORUS. 

Happy we are a' thegither, 

Happy we'll be ane an' a'; 
Time shall see us a' the blither 

Ere Ave rise to gang awa', 

See the miser o'er his treasure 

Gloating wi' a greedy e'e! 
Can he feel the glow o' pleasure 

That around us here we see V 
Can the peer, in silk and ermine. 

Ca' his conscience half his own: 
His claes are spun an' edged wi' vermin. 

Though he stan' afore a throne ! 

Thus, then, let us a' be tassing, 

Aff our stoups o' generous flame: 
An' while roun' the board 'tis passing. 
Raise a sang in frien'ship's name. 

Frien'ship rnaks us a' mair happy, 

Frien'ship gies us a' delight: 
Frien'ship consecrates the drappie, 

Frien'ship brings us here to-night. 

I DREAM'D I LAY. 
I dream'd I lay where flowers were spriiiginj 

Gaily in the sunny beam; 
List'ning to the wild birds singing, 

By a falling crystal stream • 



Straight the sky grew black and daring: 

Through the woods the whirlwinds rave ; 
Trees with aged arms were warring, 

O'er the swelling, dramlie wave. 
Such was my life's deceitful morning. 

Such the pleasures I enjoy'd; 
But lang ere noon, loud tempests storming 

A' my flow'ry bliss destroy'd. 

Though fickle fortune has deceived me, 

(She promis'd fair, and perform'd but ill 
Of mony a joy and hope bereaved me. 
I bear a heart shall support me still. 



S O X G. 

Tune— " Bonnie Dundee." 

Is Mauchline there dwells six proper young 

Belles, 
The pride of the place and it's neighbourhood 

a', 
Their carriage and dress, a stranger would 
guess, 
In Lon'on or Paris they'd gotten it a'. 
Miss Miller is fine, Miss Markland's divine. 
Miss Smith she has wit, and Miss Betty is 
braw : 
There's beauty and fortune to get wi' Mi»> 
Morton,- 
But Armour's the jewel for me o' them a'. 



OX THE DEATH OF 

SIS JAMES HUNTER BLAIR. 
The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare. 

Dim, cloudy, sunk beneath the western wave: 
Tli' inconstant blast howl' d thro' the darkening 
air, 
And hollow whistled in the rocky cave. 

Lone as I wander'd by each cliff and dell. 
Once the loved haunts of Scotia's ro^al 
train ;ioi 
Or mused where limpid streams once hallow'd 
well,i02 
Or mould'ring ruins mark the sacred fane. i fc3 

Th' increasing blast roar'd round the beetling 
rocks, 
The clouds, swift-wing'd, flew o'er the starry 

The groaning trees untimely shed their locks. 
And shooting meteors caught the startled 
eye. 

The paly moon rose in the livid east, 
And 'mongthe cliffs disclosed a stately form. 

In weeds of woe that frantic beat her breast. 
And mix'd her wail in gs with the raving 
storm. 

"Wild to my heart the filial pulses glow, 
'Twas Caledonia's trophied shield I view'd : 

Her form majestic droop'd in pensive woe. 
The lightning of her eye in tears imbued. 

Reversed that spear, redoubtable in war. 

Reclined that banner, erst in fields unfurl'd. 
That like a deathful meteor gleam'd afar. 
And braved the mighty monarchs of the 
world ! 
"My patriot son fills an untimely grave !" 

With accents wild and lifted arms she cried : 
" Low lies the hand that oft was stretch'd to 
save 
Low lies the heart that swell' d with honest 
pride. 

"A weeping country joins a widow's tear, 
The helpless poor mix with the orphan's cry; 

The drooping arts around their patron's bier. 
And grateful science heaves the heartfelt, 
si gh ! 



THE TWA HERDS. 



49 



" i saw mv sons resume their ancient fire ; 

I saw fair Freedom's blossoms richly blow! 
But, ah ! how hope is born but to expire ! 

Relentless fate has laid the guardian low — 
"My patriot falls, but shall he lie unsung, 

While empty greatness saves a worthless 
name ? 
NO; every Muse shall join her tuneful tongue, 

And future ages hear his growing fame. 

"And I will join a mother's tender cares. 
Thro' future times to make his virtues last. 
That distant years may boast of other 

Blairs"— 
She said, and vanish'd with the sweeping 
blast. 

WRITTEN' 

OK THE BLAXK LEAF OF A COPV OF THE POEMS, 
PRESENTED TO A>" OLD SWEETHEART, THEN" 
MARRIED.™* 

0>"CE fondly lov'd, and still remember'd dear, 

Sweet early object of my youthful vows, 
Accept this mark of friendship, warm, sincere, 

Friendship, 'tis all cold duty now allows.— 
And when vou read the simple artless rhymes. 

One friendly sigh for him, he asks no more, 
Who distant burns in flaming torrid climes, 

Or haply lies beneath th' Atlantic roar. 

THE KIRK'S ALARM.i'S 
A SATIRE. 

Orthodox, orthodox, wha believe in John 
Knox. 
Let me sound an alarm to your conscience ; 
There's a heretic blast has' be^n blawn in the 
wast, 
That what is no sense must be nonsense. 
Dr. Mac.ios Dr. Mac, should stretch on a rack. 

To strike evil doers wi' terror: 
To join faith and sense upon any pretence, 

Is heretic, damnable error. 
Town of Ayr, town of Ayr, it was mad, I de- I 
clare, 
To meddle wi' mischief a-brewing; 
Provost John is still deaf to the church's relief, 

And orator Bobi<> 7 is its ruin. 
D'rj-mple mild,? 08 D'rymple mild, tho' your : 
heart's like a child, 
And vour life like the new driven snaw. 
Yet that winna save ye, auld Satan must have 

For preaching that three's ane an" twa. 
Rumble John,i<>9 Rumble John, mount the steps 
wi' agroan. 
Cry the book is wi' heresy cramm'd: 
Then lug out your larle, deal brimstone like 
adle, 
And roar every note of the damn'd. 
Simper James, no Simper James, leave the fair 
Killie dames. 
There's a holier chase in vour view : 
I'll lay on your head, that' the packye'll soon I 
lead. 
For puppies like you there's but few. 

Singet Sawney,m Singet Sawnev, are ye hoord- 
ing the penny, 
Unconscious what evils await ; 
Wi' a jump. yell, and howl, alarm every soul, 

For the foiil thief is just at your gate". 
Daddy Anld,"2 Daddv Auld, there's a tod in the 
fanld. 
A tod meikle waur than the clerk : 
Tho' ve can do littie skaith, ve'll be in at the ! 
death, 
And if ye canna bite ye may bark. 



Davie Bluster,n3 Davie Bluster, if for a saint ye 
do muster. 
The corps is no nice of recruits ; 
Yet to worth let's be just, royal blood ye might 
boast, 
If the ass was the king of the brutes. 

Jamie Goose, 114 Jamie Gosse, ye ha'e made but 
toom roose, 
In hunting the wicked lieutenant; 
But the Doctor's your mark, for the Lord's haly ' 
ark; 
He has cooper'd and cawd a wrang pin in't. 
Poet Willie,H5 p et Willie, gie the Doctor a 
volley. 
Wi* your "liberty's chain" and vour wit ; 
O'er Hegasns' side ye ne'er laid a "stride, 

Ye but smelt, man, the place Avhere he sh— 
Andro Gouk,H6 Andro Gouk,ve may slander the 
book. 
And the book not the waur let me tell to ; 
Ye are rich, and look big, but lav bv hat and 
wig, 
And ye'll ha'e a calf's head o' sma' value. 

Bar Steenie.ii" Bar Steenie, what mean ye 
what mean ye! 

If ye'll meddle nae mair wi' the matter. 
Ve may ha'e some pretence to havins and sense, 

Wi' people wha ken ye nae better. 

Irvine side,n s Irvine side, wi' your turkev-cock 
pride, 
Of manhood but sma' is your share; 
Ye've the figure, 'tis true, even your face will 
allow. 
And your friends they dare grant you nae 
mair. 
Mnirland Jock,n 9 Muirland Jock, when the Lord 
makes a rock 
To crush common sense for her sins, 
If ill manners were wit, there's no mortal so fit 
To confound the poor Doctor at ance. 

Holy Will. 120 Holy Will, there was wit i' vour 
skull, 

When ye pilfer'd the alms o' the poor; 
The timer is scant, when ye're ta'en for a aaiilt, 

Wha should swing in a rape for an hour. 

Calvin's sons, Calvin's sons, seize your spiritual 
guns. 
Ammunition ye never can need : 
Your hearts are the stuff, will be powther 
enough. 
And your skulls are storehouses o' lead. 

Poet Burns, Poet Burns, wi' yonrpriest-skelping 
tarns, 

Why desert ye your auld native shire ; 
Your muse is a scipsie, e'en tho' she were tin>ie, 

She could ca' us nae waur than Ave are. 



THE TWA HERDS. 
O a'te pious godly flocks, 
Weel fed on pasture's orthodox, 
Wha now will keep yon frae the fox. 

Or worrving tykes. 
Or wha will tent the whaifs and crocks. 

About the dykes ? 
The twa best herds in a' the wast, 
That e'er ga'e gospel hom a blast. 
These five and twenty simmers past, 

! dool to tell, 
Ha'e had a bitter black out-cast 

Atween themseP. 
O. Moodv. man, and worthy Russell. 
How could you raise so vile a bustle ? 
Ye'll see how Xew-Light herds will whistle. 

And think it fine ; 
The Lord's cause ne'er gat sic a twistle, 

Sin' I ha'e min'. 



50 BURNS' POETICAL W0RlvS\ 

O, Kirs! whae'cr wad hue expeckit, 
Your duty he wad sac negleck.it, 
Yc wha were ne'er by laird respeckit, 

To wear the plaid. 
But by the brutes themselves cleCkltj 

To be their guide. 



What dock wi' Moody's flock could rank. 
Sae hale and hearty every shank, 
Nae poison'd sour Arminian stank, 

He let them taste, 
Frae Calvin's well, aye clear they drank— 

O sic a feast ! 
The thummart, wil'-cat, brock, and tod, 
Weel kenn'd his voice thro' a' the wood, 
He smelt their ilka hole and road, 

Baith out and in, 
And weel he lik'd to shed their bluid, 

And sell their skin. 

What herd like Russell tell'd his tale ? 
His voice was heard thro' miur and dale, 
He kenn'd the Lord s sheep, ilka tail, 

er a' the height. 
And saw gin they were sick or hale, 

At the first sight. 
He fine a mangy sheep could scrub, 
Or nobly fling the gospel club, 
And New-Light herds could nicely drub, 

Or pay their skin, 
Could shake them o'er the burning dub; 

Or heave them in. 

Sic two— O ! do I live to see't— 
Sic famous two should disagreet', 
An' names like 'villain,' 'hypocrite,' 

Ilk ither gi'en, 
While New-Light herds wi' laughin' spite, 

Say neither's liein'! 
A' ye wha tent the gospel fauld, 
There's Duncan, deep, and Peebles, shaul, 
But chiefly thou, Apostle Auld 

We trust in thee, 
That thou wilt work them, hot and canld, 

Till they agree. 
Consider, Sirs, how we're beset, 
There's scarce a new herd that we get, 
But comes frae that cursed set, 

1 winna name ; 

I hope frae heav'n to see them yet 

In fiery flame ! 
Dalrymple has been long our fae. 
Mc Gill has wraught us meikle wae, 
And that curs'd rascal ca'd Mc Quhae, 

And baith the Shaws, 
That aft hae made us black and blae, 

Wi' vengefu' paws. 
Auld Wodrow lang has hatch'd mischief, 
We thought aye death wad bring relief, 
But he has gotten, to our grief, 

Ane to succeed him, 
A chield wha'll soundly buff our beef : 

I meikle dread him."-i 
And mony a ane that I could tell, 
Wha fain would openly rebel, 
Forby turn-coats amang oursel, 

There Smith for ane, 
I doubt he's but a grey- nick quill, 

And that ye'll fin'. 
O ! a' yc flocks o'er a' the hills, 
By mosses, meadows, moors, and fells, 
Come join your counsel and your skills, 

To cow the lairds, 
And get the brutes the power themsels, 

To choose their herds. 
Then Orthodoxy yet may prance, 
And Learning in a woody dance, 
And that fell cur cad Common Sense, 

That bites sae sair. 
Be banish'd o'er the sea to France : 

Let him hark there. 



Then Shaw's and D' rymple's elo.j 
Mc Gill's close nervous excellence, 
Mc Queae's pathetic manlv sense, 

Andguid McMath, 
Wi' Smith, wha thro' the heart can glance; 

May a' pack aff. 



THE HENPECK'D HUSBAND. 
Cuks'd be the man, the poorest wretch in life* 

The crouching vassal to the tyrant wife, 
Who has no will but by her hfgh permission ; 
Who has not sixpence* but in her possession : 
Who must to her his dear friend's secret tell : 
Who dreads a curtain lecture worse than hell. 
Were such the wife had fallen to my part, 
I'd break her spirit, or I'd break her heart; 
I'd charm her with the magic of a switch, 
I'd kiss her maids, and kick the perverse bitch. 



ELEGY ON THE YEAR If 88. 

For lords or kings I dinna mourn, 
E'en let them die— for that they're born ! 
But, oh, prodigious to reflect, 
A towmont, sirs, is gane to wreck ! 
O Eighty-eight, in thy sma' space 
What dire events ha'e taken place! 
Of what enjoyments thou has reft us! 
In what a pickle thou hast left us ! 

The Spanish empire's tint ahead, 
An' my auld teethlcss Bawtie's dead ; 
The toolzie's teugh 'tween Pitt an' Fox, 
An' our guidwife's wee birdy cocks; 
The tane is game, a bluidy devil, 
But to the hen-birds unco civil ; 
The tither's dour, has nae sic breedin', 
But better stuff ne'er claw'd a midden ! 

Ye ministers, come mount the pu'pit, 
An' cry till ye be hearse an' rupit ; 
For Eighty-eight he wish'd yon weel. 
An' gied ye a' baith gear an' meal ; 
E'en mony a plack, an' mony a peck, 
Ye ken yoursels, for little feck ! 

Ye bonnie lasses dight your een, 
For some o' you hae tint a frien' ; 
In Eighty-eight, ye ken, was ta'en 
What ye'll ne'er hae to gi'e again. 

Observe the very nowt an' sheep, 
How dowff an' dowie now they creep ; 
Nay, even the yirth itsel' does cry, 
For Embro' wells are grutten dry. 

O Eighty -nine, thon's but a bairn, 
An' no owre auld, I hope, to learn ! 
Thou beardless boy, I pray tak' care, 
Thou now hast got thy daddy's chair, 
Nae hand-cuff'd, muzzl'd, half-shackl'd Regent, 
But, like himsel". a full free agent. 
Be sure ye follow out the plan 
Nae waur than he did, honest man ! 
As meikle better as you can. 



VERSES. 
WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE INN AT CARRON. 

We cam na here to view your walks 

In hopes to be mair wise, 
But only, lest we gang to hell, 

I may be nae surprise : 
But when we tiii'd at your door, 

Your porter dought nae hear us ; 
Sae may, should we to bell's vetts como 

Your billie Satan sair us ! 






MUSING ON THE 
LINES WRITTEN BY BURNS, 

WHILE OX HIS DEATHBED, TO JOHN RANKTNE.AYR- 
SHIRE, AND FORWARDED TO HIJI IMMEDIATELY 
AFTER THE POET'S DEATH. 

He who of Rankine sang, lies stiff and dead, 
And a green grassy hillock hides his head; 
Alas! alas! an awful change indeed. 



At a meeting of the Dumfries-shire Volunteers, 
held to commemorate the anniversary of Rod- 



delivered the following Lines : — 

Instead of a song boys, I'll give you a toast, 
Here's the memory of those on the twelfth that 

we lost ; 
That we lost, did 1 say, nay, by heav'n! that we ! 

found ! 
For their fame it shall last while the world goes 

round. 
The next in succession I'll give you the King, 
Whoe'er would betray him, on high may he 

swing ; 
And here's the grand fabric, our free Constitu- 
tion, 
As built on the base of the great Revolution ; 
And longer with Politics not to be cramm'd, 
BeAnarchy eurs'd. and be Tyranny danm'd; 
And who would to Liberty e'er prove disloval, 
3Iay his son oe a hangman, and he his first trial. 



THE BIRKS OF ABERFELDY. 
Bonny lassie will ve go. will ye go, will ye go. 
Bonny lassie will "ye go, to the Birks of Aber- 
feldy ? 

Now summer blinks on flowery braes, 
And o'er the crystal streamlet plays, 
Come, let us spend the lightsome d'avs 

In the birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, etc. 
While o'er their heads the hazels hing. 
The little birdies blythely sing, 
Or lightly flit on wanton wing 

In the birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, &c. 
The braes ascend like lofty wa's. 
The foaming stream deep-roaring fa's. 
O'erhung wi' fragrant spreading shaws, 

The birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, etc. 
The hoary cliffs are crown'd wi' flowers, 
"White o'er the linns the buvnie pours, 
And rising, weets wi' misty showers 

The birks of Aberfeldv. 

Bonnie lassie, <v.c. 
Let fortune's gifts at random flee, 
They ne'er shall draw a wish frac me, 
Supremely blest wi' love and thee 

In the birks of Aberfeldy. 

Bonnie lassie, &x. 



ROARING OCEAN. 

STRATHALLAN'S LAMENT. 

Thickest night o'erhangs my dwelling ! 

Howling tempests o'er me rave ! 
Turbid torrents, wintry swelling. 

Still surround my lonely cave ! 
Crystal streamlets gently flowing, 

Busy haunts of base mankind, 
Western breezes, softlv blowing, 

Suit not my distracted mind. 

In the cause of right engaged, 

Wrongs injurious to redress, 
Honour's war we strongly waged, 

Rut the heavens deny d success. 
Ruin's wheel has driven o'er us, 

Not a hope that dare attend ; 
The wide world is all before us— 

But a world without a friend! 122 



THE YOUNG HIGHLAND ROVER. 

Tune— "Morag." 
Loud blaw the frosty breezes, 

The snaws the mountains cover; 
Like winter on me seizes, 

Since my young Highland rover 

Far wanders nations over. 
Where'er he go, where'er he stray, 

May Heaven be his warden : 
Return him safe to fair Strathspey, 

And bonnie Castle-Gordon! 

The trees now naked groaning. 

Shall soon wi' leaves be hinging, 
The birdies dowrie moaning, 

Shall a' be blythely singing. 
Sac I'll rejoice the lee king day, 

When bv his miuhtv warden 
My youth's return'd to fair Strathspey, 

And bonnie Castle-Gordon! 123 



STAY, MY CHARMER. CAN YOU LEAVE 
ME? 
Tune— "An Gille dnbh ciar-dhubh." 
Stay, my charmer, can yon leave me ? 
Cruel, cruel to deceive me ! 
Well you know how much yon grieve me ; 
Cruel charmer, can yon go? 
Cruel charmer, can yon go ? 

By my love so ill-requited ; 

By the faith you fondly plighted 5 

By the pangs of lovers" slighted ; 

Do not, do not leave me so! 

Do. not, do nut Jeave ine so ! 



RAVING WINDS AROUND HER BLOW- 
ING. 
Tune— "M'Gregorof Ruara's Lament." 

Raving winds around her blowing, 
Yellow leaves the woodlands strewing, 
By a river hoarsely roaring, 
Isabella stray'd deploring— 
"Farewell, hours that late did measure 
Sunshine days of joy and pleasure : 
Hail, thou gloomy night of sorrow. 
Cheerless night that knows no morrow! 
" O'er the past too fondly wandering, 
On the hopeless future pondering; 
Chilly grief my life-blood freezes, 
Fell despair my fancy seizes. 
Life, thou soul of every blessing, 
Load to misery most distressing, 
O how gladly I'd resign thee. 
And to dark 'oblivion join thee !'' 



MUSING ON THE ROARING OCEAN. 
Tune—"- Druimion dnbh." 
MrsiNGon the roaring ocean, 

Which divides my love and me : 
Wearying heaven in warm devotion, 

For his weal where'er he be. 
Hope and feai-'s alternate billow 

Yielding late to nature's law. 
Whisp'ring spirits round mv pillow 

Talk of him that's far awa'. 

Ye whom sorrow never wounded, 

Ye who never shed a tear. 
Care-troubled, joy -surrounded, 

Gaudy day to yon is dear. 



Gentle night, do thou befriend me: 
Downy sleep the curtain draw ; 

Sj'irit> kind, again attend me f 
Talk of hiin that's far awa'. 



PIRNS' POETICAL WOKKS. 

The tyrant Death, with grim control. 

May seize my fleeting breath : 
But tearing Peggy from my soul 

Must be a stronger death. 



BLYTHE WAS SHE 
Blythe, blythe and merry was she. 

Blythe was she but and ben ; 
Blythe by the banks of Era, 

And blythe in Glenturit glen. 

By Ochtertvre grows the aik. 

On Yarrow banks, the birken shtyn ; 
But Phemie was a bonnier lass 

Than braes o' Yarrow ever saw, 
Blythe, &c. 

Her looks were like a flow'r in May, 
Her smile was like a simmer morn: 

•She tripped by the banks of Ern, 

As light's a bird upon a thorn. 

Blythe, <tc. 

Her bonnie face it was as meek 

As ony lamb upon a lee ; 
The evening sun was ne'er sae sweet 

As was the blink o' Phemie's e'e. 
Blythe, &c. 
The Highland hills I've wandered wide, 

And o'er the Lowlands 1 hae been : 
But Phemie was the blythest lass 

That ever trod the dewv green. 
Blythe, &c. 



A ROSE-BUD BY MY EARLY WAI/K. 
A rose-bud by my early walk, 
A down a corn-inclosed bawk, 
Sae gentlv bent its thorny stalk. 

All on a" dewy morning. 
Ere twice the shades o' dawn are fled, 
In a' its crimson glory spread, 
And drooping rich the dewy head, 

It scents the early morning. 

Within the bush, her covert nest, 
A little linnet fondly prest, 
The dew sat chilly on her breast 

Sae early in the morning. 
She soon shall see her tender brcef 
The pride, the pleasure o' the woof. 
Amang the fresh green leaves bedewed. 

Awake the early morning. 

So thou, dear bird, young Jeanis fair ! 
On trembling string or vocal air, 
Shall sweetly pay the. tender care, 

That tents* thy early morning. 
So thou, sweet rose-bud, young and gay. 
Shalt beauteous blaze upon the day. 
And bless the parent's evening rav 

That watched thy early moming.w*'- 

WHERE BRAVING ANGRY WINTER'S 

STORMS. 
Tune— "Neil Gow's Lamentation for Aber- 

cairny." 
Where braving angry winter's storms, 

The lofty Ochils rise, 
Ear in their shade my Peggy's charms, 

First blest my wondering eyes; 
As one who by some savage stream, 

A lonelv gem surveys. 
Astonished doubly marks its beam, 

With art's most polished blaze. 
Blest be the wild, sequester'd shade, 

And blest the day and hour. 
Where Peggy's charms I first survev'd, 

When first I felt their pow'r ! 



TIBBIE I HAE SEEN THE DAY. 
Tune— " Invereanld's Reel." 

Tibbie, I hae seen the day 
Ye would nae been sae shy; 

Tor laik o' gear ye lightly me, 
But troth, I care na by. 

Yestreen - I met yon on the moor. 

Ye spak nae, but gaed by like sloure ; 
Ye geek at me because I'm poor, 

But fient a hair care I, 
O Tibbie, I hae, <fcc. 

1 doubt na, lass, but ye may think, 
Because ye hae the name o" clink. 
That ye can please me at a wink, 

Whene'er ve like to try 
O Tibbie^ I hae, <fcc. 
But. sorrow tak him that's sae mean, 
Altho' his pouch o' coin were clean, 
Wha follows ony saucy quean 

That looks sae proud and high. 

• O Tibbie, I hae, <fcc. 

Altho' a lad were e'er sae smart, 
If that he want the yellow dirt, 
Y'e'll cast your head'anither airt, 
And answer him fu' dry 

O Tibbie, I hae, <fcc. 
But if he hae the name o' gear, 
Ye'll fasten to him like a brier. 
Tho' hardly he, for sense or lear, 
Be better than the kye. 

O Tibbie, I hae, dzc. 
But Tibbie, lass, tak my advice. 
Your daddie's gear maks you sae nic : 
The deil a ane wad spier your price, 
Were ve as poor as I. 

O Tibbie, I hae, &c. 
There lives a lass in yonder park. 
I would nae gie her under sark. 
For thee, wi' a' thy thousand mark ; 
Ye need na look sae high. 

O Tibbie, I hae. &c. 



C L A R I N D A. 
Clarinda, mistress of my soul, 

The measur'd time is run ! 
The wretch beneath the dreary polo. 

So marks his latest sun. 
To what dark cave of frozen night. 

Shall poor Sylvander hie? 
Depriv'd of thee, his life and light, 

The sun of all his joy. 

We part.— but bv these precious drops 

That fill thy lovely eyes ! 
No other light shall guide my steps. 

Till thy bright beams arise. 

She, the fair sun of all her sex, 
Has blest my glorious day : 

And shall a glimmering pla'net fix 
Mv worship to its ray ? 



THE DAY RETURNS, MY BOSOM BURNS. 
Tune—" Seventh of November." 
The day returns, mv bosom burns, 
The blissful day we twa did meet, 
Tho' winter wild in tempest toil'd, 
Ne'er summer sun was half sae sweet. 



Tilt: BANKS OF NiTH. 






Than a' the pride that loads the tide, 

And crosses o'er the sultry line; 
Than kingly robes, than crown and globes. 

Heaven gave me more, it made thee mine. 
While day and night can bring delight, 

Or nature aught of pleasure give ; 
While joys above, my mind can move, 

For thee, and thee alone, I live ! 
When that grim foe of life below, 

Comes iii between to make us. part; 
The iron hand that breaks our band, 

It breaks my bliss— it breaks my heart. 



THE LAZY MIST. 

The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the hill. 

Concealing the course of the dark winding rill : 

How languid the scenes, late so sprightly. 
appear, 

As autumn to winter resigns the pale year I 

The forests are leafless, the meadows arc- 
brown. 

And all the gay foppery of summer is flown : 

Apart let me wander, apart let me muse. 

How quick time is flying, how keen fate pur- 
sues : 

How long I have liv*d— but how much liv'd in 
vain ! 

How little of life's scanty span may remain : 

What aspects old Time, in his "progress, has 
■worn , 

What ties cruel Fate in my bosom lias torn ! 

How foolish, or worse, 'till our summit is 

And downward, how weaken'd. how darken'd. 

how pain d ! 
This life's not worth having with all it can 

give— 

For something beyond it poor man. sure, must 
Jive. 



O, WERE I ON PARNASSUS' HILL 
Tune— "My love is lost to me." 

were I on Parnassus' hill! 
Or had of Helicon my fill: 
That I might catch poetic skill. 

To sing how dear I love thee. 
But Nith maun be my muse's well. 
My muse maun be thy bonnie sel' : 
Oh Corsincon I'll glower and spell. 

And write how dear I love thee. 
Then come, sweet muse, inspire my lay ! 
For a' the lee-long simmer's day, 

1 couldna sing, I conldna say. 
How much, how dear, I love thee. 

I see thee dancing o'er the green. 
Thy waist sae jimp, thy limbs sae clean. 
Thy tempting lips, thy roguish e'en — 
By heaven and earth 1 love thee I 

By night, by day. a fiekl. at name, 

The thoughts o'*thee my breast inflame : 

And aye 1 muse and sing thy name : 

I only live to love thee. 
Tho' I were doom'd to wander on, 
Beyond the sea, beyond the sun, 
Till my last, weary sand was run: 

Till then— and then I love thee. 



I LOVE MY JEAN. 
Tune— rj'Miss Admiral Gordon's Strathspey. 
Of a' the airts the wind can blaw, 

I dearly like the west, 
For there the bonnie lassie lives, 

The lassie 1 lo'e best: 
There wild woods grow, and rivers row. 

And niony a hill between ; 
But day and night my fancy's flight 

Is ever wi' my Jean. 



1 see her in the dewy flowers, 

1 see her sweet and fair : 
1 hear her in the tuneful birds, 

1 hear her charm the air: 
There's not a bonnie flower that springs 

By fountain, shaw. or green, 
There's not a bonnie bird that sings, 

But minds me o' my Jean, 

THE BRAES 0' BALLOCHMYLE. 

The Catrine woods were yellow seen. 

The flowers decayed on Carrine lee,t25 
Nae lav"rock sang on hillock green, 

But nature sicken'd on the e'e. 
Thro' faded groves Maria 126 sang, 

Hersel' in beauty's bloom the while. 
And aye the wild wood echoes rang, 

Fareweel, the braes o Baliochmyle ! 

Low in your wintry beds, ye flowers, 

Again yell flourish fresh and fair. 
Ye birdies dumb, in withering bowers, 

Again ye'U charm the vocal air. 
But here, alas ! for me nae rnair. 

Shall birdie charm, or floweret smile : 
Fareweel, the bonnie nanKs of Ayr. 

Fareweel. fareweel! sweet Ballochnry'e! 

WILLIE BREWD A PECK O MATT. 
O Willie brew'd a peck o' maut. 

And Rob and Allan came to pree : 
Three blyther hearts, that lee Jang night. 

Ye wad na find in Christendie. 
'• We are na fon, we're nae that fou, 

But just a drappie in our e'e: 
The cock may craw, the day may daw. 

And aye we'll taste the barley bree. 
Here are me met, three merry boys, 

Three merry boys I trow are wo ; 
And mony a night we've merry been, 

And mony mae we hope to be I 
" We are na fou," <fec. 
It is the moon, I ken her horn. 

That's blinkin in the lift sae hie: 
She shines sae bright to wyle us name 

But by my troth she'll wait a wee '. 
We are nae fou, &c. 
Wha first shall rise to gang awa, 

A cuckold, coward loon is he ! 
Wha last beside his chair shall fa', 

He is the king amang us three ! 
We are nae fou, <fce."27 

THE BLUE-EYED LASSIE. 

1 gaed a waefu' gate yestreen. 
A gate, I fear, I'll dearly rue ; 

I gat mv death frae twa sweet e'en, 
'Twa Iovelv e'en o' bonnie blue. 

'Twas not her golden ringlets bright ; 
Her lips like roses, wat wi' dew. 

Her heaving bosom. lily-white- 
It was her e'en sae bonnie blue. 

She talk'd, she smil'd. my heart she wil'd, 

She charmed mv soul. I wist nae how ; 
And ave the stourid. the deadly wound, 

Cam* frae her e'en sae bonnie blue. 
But spare, to speak, and spare to speed; 

She'll aiblins listen to my vow: 
Should she refuse. I'll lay my dead 

To her twa e'en sae bonnie* blue.'ss 



THE BANKS OF NITH. 
Tune— " Robie Donna Goracli. ' 
The Thames flows proudly to the sea. 

Where royal cities stately stand; 
Bnt sweeter flows the Nith to me, 
Where Cummins ance had high command; 



ti BURNS' TOE" 

When shall I see that honoured land, 

That, winding stream 1 love so dear! 
Must wayward fortune's adverse hand 

For ever, ever keep me here ? 

How lovely, Nith, thy fruitful vales, 

Where spreading hawthorns gaily bloom ; 
How sweetly wind thy sloping dales 

Where lambkins wander thro' the broom! 
Tho' wandering, now. must be my doom, 

Far from thy bonnie banks and braes, 
May there my latest hours consume, 

Amang the friends of early days ! 

JOHN ANDERSON, MY JO. 
John Anderson, my jo, John, 

When wc were first acquent, 
Your locks were like the raven, 

Your bonnie brow was brent ; 
But now your brow is beid, John, 

Your locks are like the snaw ; 
But blessings on 3-onr frosty pow, 

John Anderson my jo. 
John Anderson, my jo. John, 

We clamb the hill thegither; 
And mony a canty day, John, 

We've had wi' ane anither. 
Now we maun totter down, John, 

But hand in hand we'll go: 
And sleep thegither at the foot, 

John Anderson my jo. 

THE JOLLY BEGGARS: 

A CANTATA. 
RECITATIVO. 

When lyart leaves bestrow the vird» 
Or wavering like the Baukie bird,i29 

Bedim cauld Boreas' blast, 
When hailstanes drive wi' bitter skyte, 
And infant frosts begin to bite, 
In hoary cranreuch drest ; 
Ae night at e'en a meery core, 
0' randie, gadgrel bodies, 
In Poosie-Nansie's held the splore, 
To drink their orra daddies: 
Wi' quaffing and laughing. 

They ranted and they sang ; 
Wi' jumping and thumping, 
The vera girdle rang. 
First, niest the fire, in auld red rags, 
Ane sat, weel brae'd wi' mealy bags, 

And knapsack a' in order ; 
His doxy lay within his arm, 
Wi' usquebae an' blankets warm- 
She blinket on her sodger: 
An' aye he gives the tousie drab 

The tither skelpin' kiss, 
While she held up her greedy gab, 
Just like an a'mous dish. 
Ilk smack still, did crack still, 

Just like a cadger's whip. 
Then staggering and swaggering 
He roar'd this ditty up— 

AIR. 

Tune—" Soldier's Joy." 

1 am a son of Mars who have been in many 

wars, 
And show my cuts and scars wherever I come ; 
This here was for a wench, and that other in a 

trench. 
When welcoming the French at the sound of the 

drum. 

Lai dc dandle, &c. 
ii 
My 'prenticesuip I past where my leader 

breath'd his last. 
When the bloody die was cast on the heights of 

Abram;i3<> 



T1CAL WORKS. 

I served out my trade when the gallant game 

was play'd, 
And the Moroni low was laid at the sound of 



the drum 



Lai de daudle, ice. 



I lastly was with Curtis, 132 among the floating 

hat fries, 
And there I left for witness an arm and a limb ; 
Yet let my country need me, with Elliot to head 



And now tho' I must beg with a wooden arm 

and leg. 
And many a tatter d rag hanging over my bum, 
I'm as happy with my wallet, my bottle and my 

callet, 
As when I us'd in scarlet to follow a drum. 
Lai de daudle, <fcc. 



What tho' with hoary locks. I must stand the 

winter shocks, 
Beneath the woods and rocks often times for a 

home, 
When the tother bag I sell, and the tother bottle 

tell, 
I could meet a troop of hell, at the sound of the 

drum. 

Lai de dandle, <fcc, 

RECITATIVO. 

He ended ; and the kebars shenk, 

Aboon the chorus roar; 
While frighted rattons backward leuk, 

And seek the benmost bore ; 
A fairy fiddler frae the nenk, 

He skiiTd out 'encore 1' 
But up arose the martial chuck, 

And laid the loud uproar. 

AIR. 

Tune—' 1 Soldier Laddie." 



I once was a maid, tho' I cannot tell when, 
And still my delight is in proper young men ; 
Some one o*f a troop of dragoons was my daddie, 
No wonder I'm fond of a sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lai de lal, &c. 



The first of my loves was a swaggering blade, 
To rattle the thundering drum was his trade; 
His leg was so tight, and his cheek was so 

ruddy, 
Transported I was with my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, &c. 

in. 
But the godly old chaplain left him in the lurch, 
The sword I forsook for the sake of the church, 
He ventur'd the soul, and I risked the body. 
'Twas then I prov'd false to my sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, kc. 

IV. 

Full soon I grew sick of my sanctified sot. 
The regiment at large for a husband I got: 
From the gilded spontoon to the fife 1 was. 

ready, 
I asked no more but a sodger laddie. 

Sing, Lal de lal, <tc. 

v. 

But the peace it redue'd me to beg in despair, 
Till I met niv old boy at Cunningham fair; 
His rags regimental they flutter'd so gaudy, 
My heart it rejoie'd at my sodger laddie. 
Sing, Lai de lal, «fcc. 



The jolly beggaiis 



VI. 



And now 1 have liv'd— I know not how long, 

And still I can join in a cup or a song: 

But whilst with both hands I can hold the glass 

steady, 
Here's to thee, my hero, my sotlger laddie. 
Sing, Lai de lal, <fce. 

RECITATIVO. 

Poor Merry Andrew in the nenk, 

Sat guzzling wi' a tinkler hizzie ; 
They mind't na wha the chorus teuk, 

Between themselves they were sae busy: 
At length wi' drink and courting dizzy, 

He stoiter'd up and made a face ; 
Then tnrn'd, and laid a smack on Grizzie, 

Syne tuned his pipes wi' grave grimace. 

AIR. 

Tune— '.' Anld Sir Svmon." 
Sir "Wisdom's a fool when he's foil, 

Sir Knave is a foul in a session : 
He's there but a 'prentice I trow, 

But I am a fool by profession. 

My grannie she bought me a benk, 
And 1 held awa to the school; 

1 fear I my talent misteuk, 
But what will ye hae of a fool ? 

For drink I would venture my neck, 
A hizzie's the half o' my craft. 

But what could ye other expect, 
Of ane that's avowedly daft V 

I anee was tied up like a stirk ; 

For civilly 
1 ance was a 

For touzling a lass i' my daifrin. 

Poor Andrew that tumbles for sport, 
Let naebody name wi' a jeer; 

There's ev'n, I'm taught, i' the court 
A tumbler ca'd the premier. 

Observ'd ye, yon reverend lad 
Make faces to tickle the mob ; 

He rails at our mountebank squad- 
It's rivalship just i' the job. 

And now my conclusion 111 tell, 
For faith I'm confoundedly dry ; 

The duel that's a fool for himsei', 
Gude Lord ! he far dafter than I. 

RECITATIVO. 

Then neist outspak a raucle earlin', 
Wha kent fu' weel to cleek the sterling, 
For monie a pursie she had hookit. 
And had in nionv a well been duckit. 
Her dove had been a Highland laddie, 
But weary fa' the waefu' woodie ! 
Wi' sighs and sobs she thus began 
To wail her braw John Highlandman. 

AIR. 

Tune— "O an ye were dead Guidnian." 

A highland lad my love was born, 
The Latvian' laws he held in scorn ; 
But he still was faithfu' to his clan, 
My gallant, braw John Highlandman. 

CHORUS. 

Sing, hey my braw John Highlandman ! 
Sing, ho my braw John Highlandman \ 
There's not a lad in a' the Ian' 
Was match for my John Highlandman. 



With his philibeg an' tartan plaid, 
An' gude clavmore down bv his side, 
The ladies hearts he did trepan, 
My gallant, braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, <fcc. 



We ranged a' froin Tweed to Spey, 
An' liv'd like lords and ladies gay; 
For a Lawlan's face he feared none, 
My gallant, braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 

IV. 

They banish'd him beyond the sea, 
But ere the bud was on the tree, 
Adown my cheek the pearls ran, 
Embracing my John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, <fcc. 

v 
But, oh ! they catch'd him at the last, 
And bound him in a dungeon fast: 
My curse upon them every one, 
Tliey'veLiang'd my braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, <fcc. 

And now a widow, I must mourn 
The pleasures that will ne'er return; 
No comfort but a hearty can. 
When I think on braw John Highlandman. 
Sing, hey, &c. 



A pigmy scraper, wi' his fiddle, 

Wha us'd at trysts and fairs to driddle. 

Her strappm' limb and gaucy middle, 

(He reach'd nae higher), 
Had hol'd his heart ie like a riddle, 

An' blawn't on fire. 

Wi' hand on haunch, an' upward e'e. 
He croon'd his gamut, one, two, three, 
Then in an Arioso key, 

The wee Apollo 
Set off wi' Allegretto glee 

His giga solo. 



Let me ryke up to dight that tear, 
An' go wi' me to be my dear, 
An' then vour every care and fear 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 

CHORUS. 

I am a fiddler to my trade, 
And a' the tunes that e'er I play'd, 
The sweetest still to wife or maid, 
Was-whistle owre the lave o't. 

At kirns and weddings we'se be there, 
An' O ! sae nicely's we will fare ; 
We'll bouse about till Daddie Care 
Sings whistle o'er the lave o't. 
lam, <tec. 

in. 

Sae merrily the banes we'll pyke, 

An' sun oursel's about the dyke, 

An' at our leisure, when we like, 

We'll whistle o're the lave o t. 

I am, <fcc. 

IV. 

But bless me wi' your heaven o' charms, 
And while I kittle hair on thairms, 
Hunger, cauld. an' a sic harms. 
May whistle owre the lave o't. 
I am, <kc. 

RECITATIVO. 

Her charms had struck a sturdy caird, 

As weel as poor gutscraper; 
He taks the fiddler by the beard, 

And draws a rusty rapier- 
He swoor by a' was' swearing worth, 

To speet him like a pliver. 
Unless he would from that time forth, 

Kelinquish her for ever. 



bOkKm poetical wofcKS. 



Wi' ghastly e'e. poor twecdle dee 

Upon his bankers bended, 
And pray'd for grace wi' ruefu' face. 

And sae the quarrel ended. - 
But though his little heart did grieve, 

When round the tinkler prest her, 
He feigned to snirtle in his sleeve. 

When thus the caird address'd her. 

AIR. 

Tune—'' Clout the Cauldron." 
i. 
Mt bonnie lass, I work in brass, 

A tinkler in my station ; 
I've travell'd round all Christian ground. 

In this my occupation. 
I've ta'en the gold, I've been enrolled 

In many a noble squadron: 
But vain'they search'd, when off 1 march' i 
To go and clout the cauldron. 

I've ta'en the gold, &c. 



Despise that shrimp, that witiier'd imp, 

Wi' a" his noise an' caprin'. 
An' tak' a share wi' those that bear 

The budget an' the apron. 
An' by that stoup, my faith and houpj 

An' by that dear Kilbaigie,i33 
If e'er ye want, or meet wi' scant, 

.May i ne'er wet my craigie. 

An' by that stoup, &c. 

EECITATIVO. 

The caird prevail'd— the unblushing fair 

In his embraces sunk, 
Partly wi' love o'ercome sae sair. 

An' partly she was drunk. 
Sir Violino," with an air 

That show'd a man of spunk, 
Wish'd unison between the pair, 

An' made the bottle clunk 

To their health that night. 

But hurchin Cupid shot a shaft 

That play'd a dame a shavie. 
The fiddler rak'd her fore and aft, 

Behint the chicken cavie. 
Her lord, a wight o' Homer's craft. 134 

Tho' limping with the spavie, 
He hirpl'd up," and lap like daft, 

An' shor'd them Daintie Davie- 
O' boot that night. 

He was a care-defying blade 

As ever Bacchus listed, 
Though Fortune sair upon him 1 .■:;:!. 

His heart she ever miss'd it. 
He had no wish but— to be glad, 

Xor want but— when he thirsted : 
He hated nought hut— to he sad. 

And thus the Muse suggested,' 

His sang that night. 

ATR. 

Tune— "For a' that, an' a" that." 
i. 
I am a bard of no regard. 

Wi' gentle folks, an' a' that ; 
F>ut Homer-like, the glowran hyke 
Frae town to town I draw that. 

CHOEUS. 

For a' that, an' a' that; 

An" twice as meiklc's a" that : 
I've lost but ane. I've two bchin'. 

I've wife eneugh for a' that. 

I never drank the Muse's stank, 
Castalia's burn, an' a' that : 

But there it streams, and richly reams, 
Jl? Helicon 1 ca' that. 

For a' that. <kc. 



in. 



Great love 1 bear to a' the fair, 
Their humble slave, an' a' that ; 

But lordly will, I hold it still 
A mortal sin to thraw that. 

For a' that, &c. 

IV. 

In raptures sweet, this hour we meet, 

Wi' mutual love and a' that ; 
But for how lang the flee may stang, 

Let inclination law that. 

For a' that, &c. 

Their tricks and craft have put me daft. 
They've ta'en me in, an' a' that : 

But clear your decks, and here's the sex: 
I like the jauds for a' that. 



My dearest bluid, to do them gnid. 
They're welcome till't for a' that. 

EECITATIVO. 

So sung the bard— and Nansie's wa's 
Shook with a thunder of applause, 

Re-echo'd from each mouth ; 
Thev toom'd their pocks, an' pawn'd their dud?, 
They scarcely left to co'er their fuds, 

To quench their lowin' drouth. 
Thenowre again, the jovial thrang, 

The poet did request, 
To loose his pack and wale a sang, 
A ballad o' the best: 
He rising, rejoicing, 

Between his twa Deborahs, 
Looks round him, an' found them 
Impatient for the chorus, 

AIR. 

Tune— "Jolly mortals, fill your GJ 

See ! the smoking bowl before d \ 

Mark our jovial ragged ring ! 
Eonnd and round take up the chorus, 

And in raptures let us sing. 

CHOEUS. 

A fig for those by law protected ! 

Liberty's a glorious feast! 
Courts for cowards were erected. 

Churches built to please the priest. 

ii. 
What is title ? what is treasure '! 

What is reputation's care 'i 
If we lead a life of pleasure, 
'Tis no matter how or where ! 
A fig, &c. 

in. 
With the ready trick and fable, 

Bound we wander all the day ; 
And at night, in barn or stable, 
Hug our doxies on the hav. 
A fig, .fee. 

IV. 

Does the train-attended carriage 
Through the country lighter i\>ve ': 

Does the sober bed of marriage 
Witness brighter scenes of love ': 
A fig, disc. 

Life is all a variorum, 

We regard not how it goes; 
Let them cant about decorum 

Who have characters to lose. 
A fig, &c. 

VI. 

Here's to budgets, bags, and wallets ! 

Here's to all the wandering train 1 
Here's our ragged brats and callets I 

One and all cry out, Amen ! 



BESS AND HEli SPINNING WHEEL. 



A fig for those by law protected ! 
Liberty's a glorious feast ! 

Courts fou cowards were erected, 
Churches built to please the priest. 



TaM glen. 
My heart is a-breaking, dear tittie, 

Some counsel unto me come len', 
To anger them a' is a pity, 

But what will I do wi' Tarn Glen ? 
I'm thinking, wi' sich a hraw fellow, 

In poortith I might make a fen: 
Wnat care I in riches to wallow. 

If I mamma marry Tarn Glen ? 
There's Lowrie the laird o' Brumeller, 

••Gude day to you. brute,'' he comes ben : 
lie brags and be biaws o' his siller, 

Hut when will he dance like Tarn Glen ? 

My minnie does constantly deave me, 

And bids me beware o' young men : 
They flatter, she savs, to deceive me. 

But wha can think sae o Tarn Glen ? 
My daddie says, gin I'll forsake him, 

He'll gie me guid hunder marks ten: 
But, if it's ordani'd I maun tak him, 

O wha will I get like Tarn Glen? 

Yestreen at the Valentine's dealing. 
My heart to my mou' gied a sten ; 

For thrice I drew ane without failing. 
And thrice it was written-Tam Glen ! 

The last Hallowe'en I was waukin', 

My droukit sark-sleeve, as ye ken : 
His likeness cam up the house staukin'. 

And the very grey breeks o" Tarn Glen ! 
Come counsel, dear tittie ! don't tarry : 

I'll gie you my bonnie black hen. 
Gin ve will advise me to marry 

The lad I lo'e dearlv, Tarn Glen. 



MY TOCHERS THE JEWEL 
meikle thinks my hive <>' my beauty. 

And meikle thinks my hive 6' mv kiii ; 
But little thinks my luve, 1 ken brawlie. 

My tocher's the jewel has charms for him, 
It's a' for the apple he'll nourish the tree; 

It's a' for the hinmey he 11 cherish the bee ; 
My laddie's sae meikle in luve wi' the siller, 

He canna hoe luve to spare for me. 
Your proffer o' hive's an airl-penny. 

My tocher's the bargain ye wad buy : 
But an' ye be crafty. I am cunniu', 

Sac ye" wi' anither your fortune maun try. 
Ye're like te the bark o yon rotten tree. 

Ye're like to the timmer o' yon rotten wuod. 
Yell slip frae me like a knotless thread, 

And yell crack your credit wi' mae nor me. 



THEN GUIDWIFE COUNT THE LAWIN. 
Gaxe is the day and mirk's the night, 
But we'll ne'er stray for fau't o' light. 
For ale and brandy s stars and moon, 
And bluid red wine's the risin' sun. 
Then. Guidwife, count the lawin', the lawin', the* 

la win'. 
Then, guidwife, count the lawin', and bring a 

coggie niair. 

There's wealth an' ease for gentlemen, 
And semple-folk maun fecht and fen' ; 
But here we're a' in ae accord. 
For ilka man that's drunk's a lord. 
Then guidwife count, &c. 



And pleasure is a wanton trout, 
An' ye drink but deep ye'll find him out, 
Then guidwife count, <fcc. 

WHAT CAN A YOUNG LASSIE DO WI' AN 
AULD MAN. 

What can a young lassie, what shall a young 
lassie, 

What can a young lassie do wi' an auld man? 
Bad luck on the pennie that tempted rav minnie 

To sell her poor Jenny for siller an' Ian' ; 
Bad luck on the pennie, <fcc. 
He's always compleenin' frae mornin' to e'enin'. 

He hosts and he hin.les the wearv day lung; 
He's doy'lt and he's dozin', his bluid it is frozen, 

0, dreary's the night wi' a crazy auld man ! 
He hums and he hankers, he frets and he can- 



kers 



er can please him. do a' that I can; 
peevish, and jealuus of a' the young 



1 n 
He's 
f< 

O, dool on the day, I met wi" an auld man ! 
My auld auntie Katie upon me takes pity. 
I'll do my endeavour to follow her plan ; 
I'll cross him. and wrack him, until I heart- 
break him, 
And then his auld brass will buy me a new pan. 



THE BONNIE WEE THING. 

Bn.NNiK wee thing, cannie wee thing. 



L'vcly wee thing, wert thou r 
uv.d wear thee iii mv bosom. 
Lest mv jewel I should tine ! 



I 



Wistfully I look and languish, 
In that bonnie face of thine : 

And my heart it stonnds wi' anguish, 
Lest my wee thing be na mine. 

Wit, and grace, and love, and beauty, 

In ae constellation shine; 
To adore thee is niy duty. 

Goddess o' this soul o mine ! 
Bonnie wee, ike. 

O, FOB ANE AND TWENTY, TAM! 
Tttne— "THe Moudiewort." 
An' O, for ane and twenty, Tam ! 

An' hey, sweet ane and twentv, Tam : 
I'll learn my kin a rattlin sang, 

An' I saw" ane and twenty, Tam : 
They snool me sair. and baud me down, 

And gar me look like bluntie, Tam ! 
But three short years will soon wheel roun'— 
And then comes ane and twenty, Tam! 
An' O, for ane, Arc. 

A jdieb 6' Ian", a claut o' gear. 

Was left me by my auntie. Tam : 
At kith or km I need na spier, 

An' I saw ane and twenty, Tam! 
An' O, for ane, <fcc. 

They'll hae me wed a wealthy coof, 

Tho' I myself hae plentv. Tam : 
But hear'st thou laddie,— there's my lorif,— 

I'm thine at ane and twenty, Tam ! 
An" O, for ane, <fce. 

BESS AND 1IEB SPINNING WHEEL. 
O, leeze me on my spinning wheel, 
O, leeze me on ray rock and reel: 
Frae tap to tae that deeds me bien, 
And haps me fiel and warm at e'en! 
I'll set me down and sing and spin, 
While Iaigh descends the simmer sun, 
Blest wi' content, and milk and meal— 
O, leeze me on my spinning wneel. 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



On ilka hand the burnics trot, 
And meet below thy thcekit cot; 
The scented birk and hawthorn white 
Across the pool their arras unite, 
Alike to screen the birdie's nest, 
And little Ashes' caller rest: 
The sun blink's kindly in the biel', 
Where, blythe I turn ray spinning wheel. 

On lofty aiks the cushats wail, 
And echo cons the doolfu' tale ; 
The lintwhites in the hazel braes, 
Delighted, rival ither'slays: 
The craik amang the claver hay, 
The paitrick whirrin o'er the ley, 
The swallow j inkling round ray shicl, 
Amuse me at my spinning wheel. 

Wi' snia' to sell, and less to buy, 
Aboon distress, below envy, 
O wha wad leave this humble state, 
For a' the pride of a' the great ? 
Amid their flaring, idle toys, 
Amid their cumbrous, dinsome joys, 
Can they the peace and pleasure feel, 
Of Bessie at her spinning wheel. 



COUNTRY LASSIE. 
In simmer when the hay was mawn, 

And corn wav'd green in ilka field. 
While claver blooms white o'er the lea, 

And roses blaw in ilka bield ; 
Blythe Bessie in the milking shiel, 

Says, "I'll be wed come o't what will ;" 
Out spake a dame in wrinkled eild, 

" O' gude advisement comes nae ill." 
" Its ye hae wooers mony a ane, 

And, lassie, ye're but young, ye ken; 
Then wait a wee, and cannie wale, 

A routine butt, a routine ben: 
There's Johnnie o' the Buskie-glen, 

Fu' is his barn, fu' is his byre ; 
Tak this frae rae, my bonnie hen, 

It's plenty beets the luver's fire." 

" For Johnnie o'er the Buskie-glen, 

I dinna care a single flie ; 
He lo'es sae weel his scraps and kye, 

He has nae luve to spare for me; 
But blythe's the blink o' Koine's e'e, 

And weel I wat he lo'es me dear : 
Ac blink o' him I wad na gie 

For Buskie-glen and a' his gear." 

41 O thoughtless lassie ! life's a faught, 

The canniest gate, the strife is sair ; 
But aye fu' han't is fechtin' best, 

A hungry care's an unco care : 
But some will spend, and some will spare, 

And wilfn' folk maun hae their will ; 
Syne as ye brew, ray maiden fair, 

Keep mind that ye maun drink the yill." 
" O gear will buy me rigs o' land, 

And gear will buy me sheep and kye ; 
But the tender heart o' leesorae luve, 

The gowd and siller canna buy : 
We may be poor,— Robie and I, 

Light is the burden luve lays on ; 
Content and love brings peace and joy— 

What mair hae queens upon a throne ?" 

FAIR ELIZA. 

A GAELIC AIR. 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza, 
Ac kind blink before we part, 

Row on thy despairing lover! 

Canst thou break his faithfu' heart? 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza; 
If to love thy heart denies, 

For pity hide the cruel sentence 
Under friendship's kind rijsgiijse ! 



Thee, dear maid, hae 1 offended? 

The offence is loving thee : 
Canst thou wreck his peace for ever, 

Wha for thine wad gladlv die ? 
While the life beats in my bosom, 

Thou shalt mix in ilka throe : 
Turn again, thou lovely maiden, 

Ae sweet smile on me bestow I 

Not the bee upon the bosom, 

In the pride o' sinny noon; 
Not the little sporting fairy. 

All beneath the simmer moon ; 
Not the poet in the moment 

Fancy lightens on his e'e, 
Kens the pleasure, feels the rapture 

That thy presence gies to me. 



THE POSIE. 
Oh, Luve will venture in, where it dare na well 

be seen,— 
Oh, love will venture in where wisdom ance has 

been: 
But I will down yon river rove, among the wood 
sae green— 
And a' to pu' a posie to my ain dear May. 
The primrose I will pu', the firstling o' the year, 
And I will pu' the pink, the emblem o' rav dear. 
For she's the pink o' womankind, and "blooms 
without a peer— 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll pu' the budding rose, when Phoebus peeps in 

view, 
For it's like a baumy kiss o' her sweet bonnie 

The hyacinth's for constancy wi' its unchanging 
blue— 

An' a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 
The lily it is pure, and the lily it is fair, 
And in her lovely bosom I'll place the lily there ; 
The daisy's for simplicity and unaffected air- 

And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The hawthorn I will pu', wi' its locks o' siller 

grey, 
Where, like an aged man, it stands at break o' 

day ; 
But the songster's nest within the bush I winna 

tak away— 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

The woodbine I will pu' when e'ening star in 

near, 
And the diamond-draps o' dew shall be her e'en 

sae clear; 
The violet's for modesty which weel she fa's to 

wear— 
And a' to be a posie to my ain dear May. 

I'll tie the posie round wi' the silken band o' 

luve, 
And I'll place it in her breast, and I'll swear by 

a 1 above, 
That to my latest draught o' life the band shall 

n'er remove— 
And this will be a posie to my ain dear May. 

THE BANKS O' BOON. 
Ye banks and braes o' bonnie Boon, 

How can ye bloom sae fresh and fair; 
How can ye chant ye little birds, 
. And I sae weary fu' o' care ; 
Thou'll break ray heart thou warbling bird, 

That wantons thro" the flowering thorn; 
Thou minds rae o' departed joys, 

Departed— never to return. 

Oft hae I rov'd by bonnie Boon, 
To see the rose and woodbine twine ; 

And ilka bird sans o' its luve, 
And, fondly, sae (lid ? p' mine, 



AFTON" WATER. 



Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 
Fn sweet upon its thorny three : 

And my fause lover stole my rose, 
But ah ! lie left the thorn wi' me. 

SIC A WIFE AS WILLIE HAD. 
Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed, 

The spot they ca"d it Linkuuidoddie ; 
Willie was a wabster guid, 

Could stown a cine wi" ony bodic ; 
He had a wife was dour and din, 
0, Tinkler Madgie was her inither— 
Sic a wife as Willie had, 
I wad na gie a button for her. 

She had an e'e— she has but ane, 
The cat has twa the very colour; 

Five rusty teeth, forbye a stump, 
A clapper tongue wad deavc a miller ; 

A whiskin' beard about her mou\ 
Her nose and chin they threaten ither; 
Sic a wife, <fcc. 

She's bow-hongh'd, she's heinshinncd, 
Aelimpin' leg a hand-breed shorter; 

She's twisted ri.irht. she's twisted left, 
To balance fair in ilka quarter: 

She has a hump upon her breast, 
The twin o' that upon her shouther ; 
Sic a wife, etc. 

Auld baudrons by the ingle sits. 

An' wi' her loof her face a-washin' ; 
But Willie's wife is nae sae trig. 

She dibits her grunzic wi' a hushion; 
Her wailie neives like midden creels, 
Her face wad fvle the Logan Water ; 
Sic a wife as 'Willie had, 
I wad na gie a button for her. 

GLOOMY DECEMBER. 
Axce mair I hail thee, thou gloomy December, 

Ance mair I hail thee, wi' sorrow and care; 
Sad was the parting thou mak'st me remember, 

Parting wi' Nancy, Oh ! ne'er to meet mair ! 
Fond lovers' parting is sweet painful pleasure, 

Hope beaming mild on the soft parting hour; 
But the dire feeling, Oh ! farewell for ever, 

Is anguish unmingl d and agony pure. 
Wild as the winter now tearing the forest, 
. 'Till the last leaf o' the summer is flown, 
Such is the tempest has shaken mv bosom, 

Since mj T last hope and last comfort is gone ! 
Still as I hail thee, thou sloomv December. 

Still shall I hail thee wi' sorrow and care ; 
For sad was the parting thou mak'st me remem- 
ber, 

Parting wi' Nancy, Oh ! ne'er to meet mair. 

E V A X B A X K S. 
Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires, 
The sun from India's shore* retires ; 
To Evan banks, with temp'rate ray. 
Home of my youth, it leads the day. 
Oh! banks to me for ever dear! 
Oh! streams whose murmurs still I hear! 
Ah! all my hopes of bliss reside. 
Where Evan mingles with the Clyde, 
And she. in simple beauty drest. 
Whose image lives within my breast ; 
Who trembling heard mv piercing sigh, 
And long pursu'd me with her eve ! 
Does she. with heart unchang'd'as mine, 
Oft in the vocal bowers recline ? 
Or where yon grot o'erhangs the tide, 
Muse while the Evan seeks the Clyde ? 

Ye lofty banks that Evan bound ! 
Ye lavish woods that wave around. 
And o'er the stream your shadows throw, 
^Vhich sweetlv winds so far below ; 



What secret charm to mem'ry brings, 
.111 that on Evan's border springs? 
Sweet banks ! ve bloom bv Mary's side : 
Blest stream ! she views thee haste to Clyde. 

Can all the wealth of India's coast 
Atone for years in absence lost? 
Return, ye moments of delight, 
With richer treasures bless my sight ! 
Swift from this desert let me part, 
And fly to meet a kindred heart ! 
Nor more may aught my steps divide, 
From that dear stream which flows to Clyde. 



WILT THOU BE MY DEARIE? 

Wilt thou be my dearie? 

When sorrow wrings thy gentle heart, 
wilt thou let me cheer thee ? 

By the treasure of my soul. 
And that the love I bear thee ! 

I swear and voav. that only thou 
Shall ever be my dearie. 

Only thou, I swear and vow, 

Shall ever be my dearie. 

Lassie, say thou lo'es me : 

Or, if thou wilt na be my ain, 
Sae na thou'lt refuse me : 

If it winna. canna be. 
Thou for thine, may choose me: 

Let me, lassie, quickly die, 
Trusting that thou lo'es me, 

Lassie, let me quickly die, 

Trusting that thou lo'es me. 



SHE'S FAIR AND FAUSE. 

She's fair and fanse that causes my smart, 

I lo'ed her meikhe and lang ; 
She's broken her vow, she's broken my heart, 

And I may e'en gae hang. 
A coof cam in wi' roth o' gear, 
And I hae tint my dearest dear, 
But wojnan is but warld's gear, 

Sae let the bonnie lass gang. 
Whate'er ve be that woman love, 

To this be never blind— 
Nae ferlie 'tis tho' fickle she prove, 

A woman has't by kind: 
O. woman lovely, woman fair! 
An angel form's fa'n to thy share, 
'Twad been o'er meikle to gien thee mair— 

I mean an angel mind. 

AFTON W A T E R. 

Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 
braes. 

Flow sentlv. I'll sing thee a son? in thy praise; 

MvMarv's*aslecp bv thv murnuiring stream, 

Flow gently. swee*t Afton, disturb not her 
dream*. 

Thou stock-dove whose echo resounds thro' the 
glen, 

Ye wild whistling blackbirds in yon thorny den. 

Thou green-crested lapwing, thy screaming for- 
bear, 

I charge yon disturb not my slumbering fair. 



rills; 
There dailv I wander as noon rises high, 
.My flocks and my Mary's sweet cot in my eye. 

How pleasant thy banks and green valleys be- 
low. 

Where wild in the woodlands the primroses 
blow : 

There oft as mild evening weeps over the lea, 

The sweet-scented birk shades my Mary and 



60 



The crystal stream, Alton, how lovely it glides, i 
And winds by the cot where my Mary resides ; ' 
How wanton thy waters her showy feet lave, 
As, gathering sweet flowerets, she stems thy 

clear wave. 
Flow gently, sweet Alton, among thy green 

braes, 
Flow gently, sweet river, the theme of my lays; 
My Mary's asleep by thy mnrmoring stream, 

disturb not her 



BOXX1E BELL. 
The smiling Spring comes in rejoicing, 

And surly Winter grimly flies; 
Now crystal clear are the falling waters. 

And bonny blue are the sunny skies; 

Fresh o'er the mountains breaks forth tL 

morning, 

The ev'ning gilds the ocean's swell : 

All creatures joy in the sun's returning. 

And 1 rejoice in my bonnie Bell. 

The flow'ry Spring leads sunny Summer, 

And yellow Autumn presses near. 
Then in his turn comes gloomy Winter, 

'Till smiling Spring again appear, 
Thus seasons dancing, life advancing, 

Old Time and Nature their changes tell, 
But never ranging, still unchanging 

I adore my bonnie Bell. 

THE GALLANT WEAVEK. 

Where Cart rins rowin to the sea, 
By mony a flow'r and spreading tree, 
Thers lives a lad, the lad for me, 
He is a gallant weaver. 

Oh I had wooers aucht or nine. 
They gied me rings and ribbons tine : 
And I was fear'd my heart would tine, 
And I gied it to the weaver. 

My daddie sign'd my tocher-band 
To gie the lad that has the land. 
But to my heart I'll had my hand, 
And give it to the weaver. 

While birds rejoice in loafy bowers ; 
While bees delight in opening flowers; 
While corn grows green in simmer showers, 
I'll love my gallant weaver. 135 

LOUIS, WHAT HECK I BY THEE? 
Louis, what reck I by thee, 

Or Geordie on his ocean ? 
Dyvour, beggar louns to me— 

I reign in Jeanie's bosom. 
Let her crown my love her law, 

And in her breast enthrone me : 
Kings and nations— swith awa' ! 

licit randies, I disown ye ! 

FOR THE SAKE OF SOMEBODY. 
My heart is sair— I dare nae tell — 

My heart is sair for somebody ; 
1 could wake a winter night 
For the sake of somebody. 
Oh-hon ! for somebody '. 
Oh-hey! for somebody ! 
1 could range the world around, 
For the sake of somebody. 
Ye powers that smile on virtuous lo ve, 

O sweetly smile on somebody I 
Frae ilka a" danger keep him free. 
And send me safe my somebody! 
Oh-hon ! for somebody ! 
Oh-hey ! for somebody ! 
I wad do— what wad 1 not ? 
For the sake of somebody ! 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 

THE LOVELY LASS OF INVERNESS. 
The lovely lass o' Inverness, 



Nae joy nor pleasure can she see ; 
For e'en and morn she cries, alas ! 

And aye the saut tear blins her e'e: 
Drumossie moor, Drnmossie daw 

A waefu' day it was to me ; 
For their I lost my father dear. 

My father dear, and brethren three. 
Their winding sheet the bloody claw 

Their graves are growing green to see : 
And by them lies the dearest lad 

That ever blest a woman's e'e ! 
Now wae to thee, thou cruel lord, 

A bluidy man, I trow, thou be ; 
For mony a heart thou hast made sair. 

That ne'er did wrong to thine or thee. 



A MOTHER'S LAMENT FOR THE DEATH 
OF HElt SON. 
Tune— '-Finlayston House.' 
Fate gave the word, the arrow sped. 

And pierced my darling's heart : 
And with him all the joys are fled 

Life can to me impart. 
By cruel hands the sapling drops, 

In dust dishonoured laid: 
So fell the pride of all my hopes, 

My age's future shade. 
The mother linnet in the brake 

Bewails her ravished young; 
So I for my lost darling's sake, 

Lament the live-long day. 
Daath, oft I've fear'd tby fatal blow, 

Now fond I bare my breast. 
O do thou kindly lay me low 

With him I love at rest ! 

O MAY, THY MORN. 
O May, thv morn was ne'er sae sweet. 

As the mirk night o' December ; 
For sparkling was the rosy wine, 

And private was the chamber: 
And dear was she I darna name, 

But I will aye remember! 
And dear, <tc. 
And here's to them, that, like ourscl', 

Can push about the jorum: 
And here's to them that wish us week 

May a' that's gnde watch o'er them ! 
And here's to them, we darna tell, 

The dearest o' the quorum. 
And here's to, &c. 

O WHAT YE WHA'S IN YON TOWN. 
what ve wha's in yon town. 

Ye seethe e'ening sun upon ? 
The fairest dame's in yon town. 

That e'en sun is shining on. 
Now haply down yon gay green shaw 

She wanders bv von spreading tree; 
How blest ve flow'rs that mind her blaw, 

Ye catch "the glances o' her e'e ! 

How blest ye birds that round her sing. 

And welcome in the blooming year, 
And doubly welcome, be the spring. 

The season to my Lucy dear ! 

The sun blinks blythe on yon town, 

And on yon borinie brae's of Ayr; 
But my delight in yon town, 

And dearest bliss, is Lucy fair. 
Without my love, not a' the charms, 

O' paradise could yield me joy ; 
But gie my Lucy in my arms, 

And welcome Lapland's drearv sky J 



My cave wad be a lover's bower, 
Tho' raging winter rent the air: 

And she a lovely little flower, 
That I wad tent and shelter there, 

sweet is she in yon town, 

Yon sinkin sun's' gane down upon ; 
A fairer than's in yon town. 

His setting beam ne'er shone upon. 
If angry fate has sworn my foe, 

And suffering I am doom'd to bear ; 

1 careless quit aught else below, 

But spare me— spare me Lucy dear ! 

For while life's dearest blood is warm, 
Ae thought frae her shall ne'er depart, 

And she— as fairest is her form ! 
She has the truest kindest heart, isg 



A RED, RED ROSE. 

O my love's like a red. red rose, 
That's newly sprung in June : 

my love's like the melody 
That's sweetly play'd in time. 

As fair art thou, my bonnie lass, 

So deep in love am I ; 
And I will love thee still, my dear, 

'Till a' the seas gang dry. 

'Till a' the seas gang dry, my dear, 
And the rocks melt wi' the sun 

1 will love thee still, my dear. 
While the sands o' life shall rnn. 

And fare thee weel, my onlv love ! 

And fare thee weel a while I 
And I will come again, my love, 

Tho' it were ten thousand mile. 



A VISION. 

As I stood by yon roofless tower. 

Where the wa'-flower scents the dewy air, 
Where th' howlet mourns in her ivy bower, 

And tells the midnight moon her care. 

The winds were laid, the air was still, 

The stars thev shot alangthe sky ; 
The fox was howling on the hill, 

Whase distant echoing glens reply. 
The stream adown its hazelly path. 

Was rushing by the ruin'd was. 
Hasting to join the sweeping Nith. 

Whase distant roaring swells and fa's. 
The cauld blue north was streaming forth 

Her lights, wi' hissing eerie din : 
Athort the lift they start and shift, 

Like fortune's favours' tint as win. 
P,t heedless chance I turn'd mine eyes. 

And. bv the moon-beam, shook, to <ee 
A stern and stalwart ghaist arise. 

Attir'd as minstrels wont to be. 
Had I a statue been o' stane. 

His darin look had daunted mc : 
And on his bonnet grav'd was p. lain. 

The sacred posie— Liberty ! 

And frae his harp sic strains did flow, 
flight roused the slumb'ring .lead to hear : 



He sang wi' joy for his former day, 
He weeping wail'd his latter times 

But what he said it was nae plav. 
I winna ventur't in my rnymes.137 



.EDONIA. 61 

COPY OF A POETICAL ADDRESS TO MR. 
WILLIAM TYTLER, 

WITH THE PRESENT OF THE BAUDS PICTURE. 

Revered defender of beauteous Stuart, 

Of Stuart, a name once respected— 
A name, which to love was the mark of a true 
heart. 
But now 'tis despised and neglected. 
Tho' something like moisture conglobes in my 
eye, 
Let no one misdeem me disloyal ; 
A poor friendless wand'rer may well claim a 
sigh. 
Still more, if that wand'rer were royal. 

My fathers that name have rever'd on a throne ; 

My fathers have fallen to right it ; 
Those fathers would spurn their degenerate son. 

That name should he scofnngly slight it. 
Still in prayers for King George I most heartily 
join, 

The Queen and the rest of the gentry: 
Be they wise, be they foolish, is nothing of 
mine ; 

Thiir title's avow'd by the country. 
But why of that epocha make such a fuss, 

That gave us the Hanover stem . 
If bringing them over was lucky for us, 

I'm sure 'twas as lucky for the'm. 

But loyalty, true ! we're on dangerous ground. 
Who knows how the fashions may alter. 

The doctrine, to-day. that is loyalty sound, 
To-morrow may bring as a halter ; 

I send you a trifle, a head of a bard, 

A trifle scarce worthy your care ; 
But accept it, good sir, as a mark of regard, 

Sincere as a saint's dying prayer. 
Now life's chilly evening dim shades on your eye. 

And ushers the long dreary night : 
But yon, like the star that athwart gilds the sky, 

Your course to the latest is bright. 

My muse jilted me here, and turned a corner 
on me, and I have not got again into her good 
graces. Do me the justice to believe me sincere 
in my grateful remembrance of the many 
civilities you have honoured me with since I 
came to Edinburgh, and in assuring you that I 
have the honour to be. 

Reverend Sir, 
Your obliged and very humble Servant, 
Edinburgh. 1787. R. Burns. 



CALEDONIA. 
Tune—" Caledonian Hunt's Delight.",' 
There was once a day— but old Time then wa- 
young— 
That brave Caledonia, the chief of her line, 
From home of your northern deities sprung, 
(Who knows not that brave Caledonia's 
divine?) 
From Tweed to the Oreades was her domain. 
To hunt, or to pasture, or to do what she 
would: 
Her hea%*en.ly relations there fixed her reign. 
And pledg'd her their godheads to warrant it 
good. 
A lambkin in peace, but a lion in war. 

The pride of her kindred the heroine grew: 
Her grandsire, old Odin, triumphantly swore.— 
•'Whoe'er shall provoke thee th' encounter 
shall rue!" 
With tillage or pasture at times she would sport. 
To feed her fair flocks by her green rustling 
corn ; 
But chiefly the woods were her fav'rite resort. 
Her darling amusement, the hounds and the 
horn. 



BURNS' POETICAL- WORKS. 



Long quiet she rcign'd ; "till thitherward steers 
A flight of bold eagles from Adria's strand :*38 
Repeated, successive, for many long years, 
Thev darken'd the air, and they plundered the 
land : 
Their pounces were murder, and terror their 
cry, 
They'd conquer'd and ruin'd a world beside : 
She took to her hills and her arrows let fly— 
The daring invaders they fled or they died. 
The fell Harpy-raven took wing from the north, 
The scourge of the seas, and the dread of the 
shore; 139 
The wild Scandinavian boar issued forth 

To wanton in carnage, and wallow in gore :M0 
O'er countries and kingdoms their fury pre- 
vail'd, 
No arts could appease them, nor arms could 
repel : 
Bat brave Caledonia in vain they assaiTd, 
As Large well can witness," and Loncartic 
tell, hi 

The cameleon-savage disturb'd her repose, 

With tumult, disquiet, rebellion and strife: 
Provoked beyond bearing, at last she rose, 

And rohb'd him at once of his hones aiul his 
life: H2 
The Anglian lion, the terror of France. 

Oft prowling, ensanguine'd the Tweed's silver 
flood ; 
But taught by the bright Caledonian lance, 

He learned to fear in his own native wood. 
Thus bold, independent, unconquer'd. and free, 

Her bright course of glory for ever shall run : 
For brave Caledonia immortal must be ; 

I'll prove it from Euclid as clear as the sun : 
Rectangle-triangle, the figure we'll choose, 

The upright is Chance, and old Time is the 
base ; 
But brave Caledonia's the hvpothenusc ; 

Then ergo she'll match them, and match them 
always.H3 



THE FOLLOWING POEM 

WAS WRITTEN TO A GENTLEMAN WHO HAD SENT 
HIM A NEWSPAPER, AND OFFERED TO CONTINUE 
IT FREE OF EXPENSE. 

Kind sir, I've read your paper through, 

And faith, to me, 'twas really new! 

How guessed ye, sir, what maist I wanted? 

This mony a day I've grain' d and gaunted, 

To ken what French mischief was brewin' ; 

Or what the drumlie Dutch were doin' ; 

That vile doup-skelper Emperor Joseph, 

If Venus yet had got his nose off ; 

Or how the collieshangie works 

Atween the Russians and the Turks; 

Or if the Swede, before he halt, 

Would play anither Charles the Twalt: 

Jf Denmark, ony body spak o't; 

Or Poland, who had now the tack o't; 

How cut-throat Prussian blades were hingin'; 

How libbet Italy was singin : 

If Spaniard, Portuguese, or Swiss, 

Were sayin or takin ought amiss : 

Or how our merry lads at name, 

In Britain's court kept up the game : 

How royal George— the Lord leuk o'er him!— 

Was managing St. Stephen's quorum ; 

If sleekit Chatham Will was livin', 

Or glaikit Charlie pot his nie.ve in; 

How daddie Burke the plea was cookiu', 

If Warren Hastings' neck was yeukin" ; 

How cesses, stents, and fees were raxed, 

Or if bare a— yet were taxed ; 

The news o' princes, dukes, and earls, 

Pimps, sharpers, bawds, and opera-girls; 

If that daft bubkie, (jeordie Wales, 

Was threshin' still at hizzies' tails, 



Or if he was growin oughtlins cloilscr, 
And no a perfect kintra eoo.-er.— 
A' this and mair I never heard of ; 
And, but for you, I might despair'd of; 
So gratefu', back your news I send yon, 
And pray, a' guid things may attend you ! 

NOTE. 

Complaining that the paper above mentioned j 
did not come regularly. 

Dear Peter, dear Peter, 
We poor sons of metre 
Are often negleckit, ye ken, 
For instance, your sheet, man ; 
(Though glad I'm to see't, man,) 
I get it no ae day in ten. 

Ellisland, Monday Morning, 1700. 



POEM. 

ON PASTORAL POETRT. 

Hail, Poesie ! thou nymph reserved! 

In chase o' thee, what crowds hac sAverved 

Frae common sense, or sunk enerved 

Mang heaps o' clavers ; 
And ock! owre aft thy joes hae starved, 

'Mid a' thy favours I 

Say, Lassie, why thy train amang. 
While loud the trump's heroic clang, 
And socks or buskin skelp alang 

To death or marriage ; 
Scarce ane has tried the shepherd-sang 

But wi' miscarriage ? 

In Homer's craft. Jock Milton thrives; 
Eschylus' pen Will Shakespear drives; 
Wee Pope, the knurlin', 'till him rives 

Horatian fame ; 
In thy sweet sang, Barbauld, survives 

Even Sappho's flame. 

But thee, Theocritus, wha matches V 
Thev're no herd's ballats, Maro's catches; 
Squire Pope but busks his skinlin' patches 

O' heathen tatters : 
I pass by bunders, nameless wretches, 

That ape their betters. 

In this braw age o' wit and lear, 
Will nane the Shepherd's whistle mail 
Blaw sweetly, in its native air 

And rural grace ; 
And wi' the far-famed Grecian share 

A rival place 'i 
Yes ! there is ane ; a Scottish callan ! 
There's ane ; come forrit, honest Allan ! 
Thou need na jouk behint the hallan, 

A chiel so clever; 
The teeth o' time may gnaw Tamtallan, 

But thou's for ever. 

Thou paints auld nature to the nines, 
In thy sweet Caledonian lines ; 
Kae gowden stream thro' myrtles twines, 
Where Philomel, 



In gowany glens thy burnie strays, 
Where honnie lasses bleach their claes; 
Or trots by hazelv shaws or braes, 

Wi' hawthorns gray, 
Where blackbirds join the shepherd's lays, 

At close o' day. 

Thy rural loves are nature's sel'; 
Nae bombast spates o' nonsense swell: 
Js'ae snap conceits, but that sweet spell 

O' witchin' love, 
That charm that can the strongest quell, 

The sternest move. 



SONNET ON THE DE 
ON THE BATTLE OF SHERIFF-MUIR. 
Between the duke of argyle and the earl 

OF MAR. 

" O, cam ye here the fight to shun, 

Or herd the sheep wi' me, man? 
Or were ye at the Sherra-mnir, 

And did the battle see, man?" 
" I saw the battle, sair and tengh, 
And reekin'-red ran mony a sheugh, 
My heart, for fear, gae sough for sough, 
To hear the thuds, and see the duels, 
O' clans frae woods, in tartan duds, 

Wha glauin'd at kingdoms three, man. 

The red-coat lads, wi' black cockades, 

To meet them were na slow, man; 
They rush'd, and push d, and blind outgnsh'd, 

And mony a bonk did fa', man: 
The great Argyle led on his files, 
l wat they glanced twenty miles: 
. They hack'd and hash'd while broadswords 

clash"d, 
And thro' they dash'd, and hew'd, and smash'd, 

Till fey men died awa', man. 
But had you seen the philabegs, 

And skyrin tartan trews, man, 
When in the teeth they dar'd our Whigs 

And covenant true-blues, man ; 
In lines extended lang and large, 
When bayonets opposed the large. 
And thousands listen'd to the charge. 
Wi' Highland wrath they frae the sheath, 
Drew blades o' death, till, out o' breath, 

They fled like frighted does, man." 
"0 how deil, Tam, can that be trne? 

The chase gaed frae the North, man ; 
I saw myself, they did pursue 

The horseman back to Forth, man; 
And at Dumblane, in my ain sight. 
They took the brig wi' a' their might : 
And straught to .Stirling winged their flight , 
But cursed lot ! the gates were shut. 



"My sister Kate came up the gate 

Wi' crowdie unto me, man : 
She swore she saw some rebels run, 

Frae Perth unto Dundee, man; 
Their left-hand general had nae skill, 
The Angus lads had nae good will 
That day their neiboors' blood to spill ; 
Foi-fear, by foes, that they should lose 
Their cogs o' brose— all crying woes, 

And so it goes, you see, man. 

They've lost some gallant gentlemen, 
Amang the Highland clans, man ; 

I fear my Lord Panmure is slain, 
Or fallen in whiggish hands, man: 

Now wad ye sing this double fight. 

Some fell for wrang, and some for right ; 

But mony bade the world guid-night ; 

Then ye may tell, how pell and mell, 

Bv red clavmores. and muskets' knell, 

WI' dying yell, the Tories fell. 
And whigs to hell did flee, man."m 



SKETCH ON NEW YEAR'S DAY. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP, 1790. 

This day. Time winds in' exhausted chain, 

To run the twelvemonths' length again : 

I see the old, bald-pated fellow ! 

With ardent eyes, complexion sallow, 

Adjust the unhnpair'd machine, 

To wheel the equal, dull routine. 

The absent lover, minor heir, 

In vain assail him with their prayer. 

Deaf as my friend, he sees them press, 

Nor makes the hour one momeut less. 



ATH OF MR. RIDDEL. 

Will you (the Major's with the hounds, 
The happy tenants share his rounds 
Coila's fair Rachel's care to-day, i" 
And blooming Keith's engaged with Gray;) 
From housewife cares a minute borrow— 
—That grandchild's cap will do to-morrow— 
And join with me a moralizing, 
This day's propitious to be wise in. 
First, what did yesternight deliver ? 
"Another vear is gone for ever," 
And what is this day's strong suggestion! 
"The passingmoment's all we rest on !" 
Rest on— for what ? What do we here ? 
Or why regard the passing year? 
Will time, amus'd with proverb'd lore, 
Add to our date one minute more ? 
A few days may— a few years must- 
Repose us in the silent dust. 
Then is it wise to damp our bliss ? 
Yes— all such reasonings are amiss ! 
The voice of nature loudly cries. 
And many a message from the skies, 
That something in us never dies : 
That on this frail, uncertain state, 
Hang matters of eternal weight ; 
That future-life in worlds unknown 
Must take its hue from this alone: 
Whether as heavenly glory bright, 
Or dark as misery's woeful night. 
Since then, my honour'd first of friends, 
On this poor being all depends: 
Let us th' important now employ, 
And live as those who never die. 
Tho'you, with days and honours crown'd, 
AVitness that filial circle round. 
(A sight life's sorrows to repulse, 
A sight pale Envy to convulse) 
Others now claim your chief regard; 
Yourself, you wait your bright reward. 



EXTEMPORE, 
ON THE LATE MR. WILLIAM SMELLIE.ug 

AUTHOR OF THE PHILOSOPHY OF NATURAL HIS- 
TORY, AND MEMBER OF THE ANTIQUARIAN AND 
ROYAL SOCIETIES OF EDINBURGH. 

Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came, 
The old cock'd hat, the grey snrtout, the same; 
His bristling beard just rising in its might. 
'Twas four long nights and days to shaving 

night; 
His uncombed grizzly locks wild, staring, 

thatch'd, 
A head for thought profound and clear, un- 

match'd; 
Yet, tho' his caustic wit was biting rude. 
His heart was warm, benevolent and good 



AT KERROUGHTREE, THE SEAT OF MR. HERON- 
WRITTEN IS SUMMER, 1795. 

Thou of an independent mind. 

With soul resolved, with soul resigned: 

Prepared Power's proudest frown to brave, 

W r ho wilt thou be, nor have a slave ; 

Virtue alone who dost revere. 

Thy own reproach alone dost fear. 

Approach this shrine, and worship here. 



SONNET ON THE DEATH OF MR. 
RIDDEL. 

No more, ye warblers of the wood— no more, 
Nor pour your descant, grating, on my ear: 
Thou young-eyed Spring thy charms I cannot 
bear ; 

More welcome were to me grim Winter's wildest 



64 



BURNS' POETICAL WOKKs. 



How can ve please, ye flowers, with all your 
dyes 7 
Ye blow upon the sod that wraps my friend : 
How can I to the tuneful strain attend ? 
That strain pours round th' untimely tomb 
where Riddel lies;H7 

Yes, pour, ye warblers, pour the notes of woe, 
And soothe the Virtues weeping on his bier; 
The Man of Worth, and has not left his peer, 

Is in his -narrow house' for ever darkly low. 

Thee, Spring, again with joy shall others greet: 

Me, niem'ry of my loss will only meet : 

MONODY OX A LADY FAMED FOR HER 
CAPRICE. 

How cold is that bosom which folly once fir'd! 
How pale is that cheek where the rouge lately 
glisten' d! 
How silent that tongue which the echoes oft 
tired ! 
How dull is that ear which to flattery so 
listened ! 
If sorrow and anguish their exit await. 
From friendship and dearest affection re- 
moved ! 
How doubly severer, Eliza, thy fate, 

Thou diedst unwept, as thoniivedst unloved! 
Loves, Graces, and Virtues, I call not on you : , 
So shy, grave, and distant, ye shed not a ' 
tear: 
But come, all ye offsprings of Folly so true, 

And flowers let us cull for Eliza's cold bier. 
We'll search through the garden for each silly 
flower, 
We'll roam through the forest for each idle 
weed; 
But chiefly the nettle, so typical, shower, 
For none e'er approach'd her but rued the 
rash deed. 
We'll sculpture the marble, we'll measure the 
lay ; 
Here Vanity strums on her idiot lyre ; 
There keen Indignation shall dart on her prey. 
Which spurning Contempt shall redeem from 
his ire. 

THE EPITAPH. 

Here lies, now a prey to insulting neglect, 
What once was a butterfly gay in life's beam ; 

Want only of wisdom denied her respect. 
Want only of goodness denied her esteem. 



ANSWER TO A MANDATE. 

SENT BY THE SURVEYOR OF THE WINDOWS, CAR- 
RIAGES, <fcC, TO EACH FARMER, ORDERING HIM 
TO SEND A SIGNED LIST OF HIS HORSES, SER- 
VANTS. WHEEL-CARRIAGES, &C, AND WHETHER 
HE WAS A MARRIED MAN OR A. BACHELO., • AND 
WHAT CHILDREN TnEY HAD. 

Sir, as your mandate did request, 
1 send you here a faithfu' list. 
My horses, servants, carts, and graith. 
To which I'm free to tak my aith. 

Imprimis, then, for carriage cattle, 
I hae four brutes o' gallant mettle, 
As ever drew before a pettle, 
My hand-afore's.i »8 ;i gnid auld has-been. 
And wight and wilfu' a' his days been; 
My hand a hin's,H9 a weel gaun filly, 
Wha aft has borne me safe frae Killie ;'•'" 
And your auld borough mony a time. 
In da'ys when riding was nae crime- 
But ance. when in my wooing pride, 
I like a blockhead boost to ride, 
The wilfu' creature sae I put to, 
(Lord pardon a' my sins and that too \> 



1 play'd my filly sic a shavie. 
She's a' bedevil'd with the spavie. 
Mv fur-a-hin's,i5i a wordv beast, 
As e'er in tug or tow was* traced : 
The fourth's a Highland Donald hastie, 
A damn'd red-wud, Kilburnie blastiel 
Forby a cowte, of cowtes the wale, 
As ever ran before a tail ; 
An' he be spared to be a beast. 
He'll draw me fifteen pund at least. 
Wheel carriages I hae but few- 
Three carts, and twa are feckly new : 
An auld wheel-barrow, mair for token. 
Ae leg and baith the trams are broken: 
I made a poker o' the spin'le, 
And my auld mither brunt the trin'le. 
For men, I've three mischievous boys, 
Run-deils for rantin' and for noise . 
A bailsman ane. a thresher t'other. 
We Davoc hands the nowte in fothcr 
I rule them, as I aught, discreetly. 
And often labour them completely ; 
And aye on Sundays, duly, nightly. 
I on the questions targe them tightly. 
Till, faith ; wee Davoc's grown sae gleg, 
(Tho' scarcely langer than my leg) 
He'll screed you aff effectual calling. 
As fast as ony in the' dwalling. 
I've nane in female servant station, 
(Lord keep me aye frae a' temptation U 
I hae nae wife, and that my bliss is, 
And ye hae laid nae tax on misses : 
Wi' weans I'm mair than weel contented. 
Heaven sent me ane mair than I wanted ; 
My sonsie, smirking, dear-bought Bes«. 
She stares the daddie in her face. 
Enough of ought ye like but grace. 
But her, my bonny, sweet, wee lady, 
I've said enough for her already, 
And if ye tax her or her mither. 
By the "Lord ye'se get them a' thegither! 

And now. remember, Mr. Aiken. 
Nae kind of license out I'm taking. 
Thro' dirt and dub for life I'llpaidle, 
Ere I sae dear pay for a saddle ; 
And a" my gates on foot I'll shank it, 
I've sturdy stumps, the Lord be thankit ! 
So dinna put me in your huke. 
Nor for my ten white shillings hike. 
This list wi' my ain hand I've wrote it. 
The day and date as under notit ; 
Then know all ye whom it concerns, 
tfubscripsi fmic,' 

Robert Blrns. 

S O N G. 

Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair : 152 
Shall ever be my muse's care; 
Their title's a' are empty show; 
(rie me my Highland Lassie, O! 

Within the glen sae bushy. .' 

Aboon the plain sae rush, O ! 

I set me down, wi" right good will, 

To sing my Highland Lassie. O '. 

were yon hills and valleys mine. 
Yon palace and yon gardens fine ! 
The world then 'the love should know 

1 bear my Highland Lassie, 01 

Within the glen, Arc. 
But fickle fortune frowns on me. 
And I maun cross the raging sea ; 
But while my crimson currents flow, 
I'll love my Highland Lassie, O! 

Within the glen, Arc 
Altho' thro' foreign climes I range. 
1 know her heart will never change, 
For her bosom burns with honour's glow, 
My faithful Highland Lassie, O ! 

Within the glen, Are. 



For her 1*11 dare the billow's roar, 
For her I'll trace a distant shore. 
That Indian wealth may lustre throw. 
Around my Highland Lassie, O ! 

Within the glen, &c. 
She has my heart, she has my hand. 
By sacred truth and honour's band! 
'Till the mortal stroke shall lay me low. 
I'm thine, my Highland Lassie, O ! 

"Within the glen, <fec. 

Farewell, the glen sae bushy, '. 

Farewell, the plain sae rushy, O! 

To other lands I now must go. 

To sing my Highland Lassie, O ".53 

IMPROMPTU, 

ON MRS. RIDDELS BIRTH-DAI". 

4th November, 1793. 
Old Winter, with his frosty beard, 
Thus once to Jove his prayer preferr'd. 
" What have I done of all the year, 
To bear this hated doom severe 'i 
My cheerless snns no pleasure know; 
SJight's horrid car drags, dreary, slow ■ 
My dismal months no joys are crowning. 
But spleeny English, hanging, drowning. 
Now. Jove, for once be mighty civil ; 
To counterbalance all this evil: 
Give me, and I've no more to say, 
Give me Maria's natal day! 
That brilliant gift will so enrich me, 
Spring, Summer. Autumn cannot match me :" 
" 'Tis done !" says Jove : so end my story, 
And Winter once rejoiced in glory. 

ADDRESS TO A LADY. 
Oh, wert thon in the cauld blast, 

On yonder lea, on yonder lea ; 
My plaidie to the angry airt, 

Fd shelter thee, I'd s'helter thee : 
Or did misfortune's bitter storms 

Around thee blaw. around thee blaw, 
Thy bield should be my bosom, 

To share it a', to share it a'. 
Or were I in the wildest waste-. 

Sae black and bare, sae black and bare. 
The desert was a paradise, 
If thou wert there, if thou wert there ; 
Or were I monarch o' the globe. 

WT thee to reign, wi' thee to reign; 
The brightest jewel in ray crown, 

Wad be my queen, wad be my queen. 

TO A YOUNG LADY. 

HISS JESSY LEWAKS, OF DUMFRIES; WITH BOOKS 
WHICH THE BARD PRESENTED HER. 

Thine be the volumes. Jessy fair. 
And with them take the poet's prayer ; 
That Fate may in her fairest page, 
With every kindliest, best presage 
Of future bliss, enrol thy name: 
With native worth, and" spotless fame. 
And wakeful caution, still aware 
Of ill— but chief, man's felon snare ; 
All blameless joys on earth we find, 
And all the treasures of the mind— 
These be thy guardian and reward: 
So prays thy faithful friend, the Bard 

SONNET, 

WRITTEN ON THE 25TH JANUARY, 1793, THE BIRTH- 
DAY OF THE AUTHOR, ON HEARING A THRUSH 
SING IN A MORNING-WALK. 

Sing on, sweet thrush, upon the leafless bough. 
Sing on, sweet bird. I listen to thv strain, 
See aged Winter, 'mid his surly reign, 

At thy blythe caro! clears his furrowed brow 



65 

So in lone Poverty's dominion drear. 

Sits meek Content with light unanxions heart. 

Welcomes the rapid moments, bids them part, 
Nor asks if they bring aught to hope or fear. 
I thank thee, Author of this opening day ! 

Thou whose bright sun now gilds yon orient 
skies! 

Rich denied, thy boon was purer joys, 
What wealth could never give nor take away! 
Yet come, thou child of poverty and care. 
That mite high Heaven bestowed, that mite with 
thee I'll snare. 

EXTEMPORE, TO MR. SYME, 

ON REFUSING TO DINE WITH HIM, AFTER HAVING 
BEEN PROMISED THE FIRST OF COMPANY", AND 
THE FIRST OF COOKERY, 17TH DECEMBER, 1795. 

No more of your guests be they titled or not, 
And cookery the first in the nation: 

Who is proof to thy personal converse and wit, 
Is proof to all other temptation. 

TO MR. SYME, 151 

WITH A PRESENT OF A DOZEN OF PORTER. 

O had the malt thy strength of mind, 

Or hops the flavour of thy wit ; 
"l'were drink for first of human kind, 

A gift that e'en for Syme were fit. 

THE DUMFRIES VOLUNTEERS. 
Tune—'- Push about the Jorum." 
April, 1795. 
Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ? 

Then let the loons beware, sir; 
There's wooden walls upon our seas, 

And volunteers on shore, sir. 
The Nith shall run to Corsincon.ioo 

And Criffel sink in Solway,isa 
Ere we permit a foreign foe 

On British ground to rally ! 

'• Fall de rail, etc. 
O. let us not. like snarling tykes, 

In wrangling be divided : 
'Till slap come in an unco loon, 

And wi' a rung decide it. 
Be Britain still to Britain true, 

Amang oursels united : 
For never but by British hands 

Maun British wrangs be righted, 
••Fall derail, <fcc. 
The kettle o' the Kirk and State, 

Perhaps a clout may fail in't ; 
But deil a foreign tinkler loon 

Shall ever ca' a nail in't: 
Our father's bluid the kettle bought, 

And wha wad dare to spoil it ; 
By heaven the sacrilegious dog 

Shall fuel be to boil it ! 

-Fall derail, &c. 
The wretch that wad a tyrant own. 

And the wretch his true-born brother, 
Who d set the mob aboon the throne. 

May they be damned together! 
Who will hot sing - God save the King.'' 

Shall hang as high's the steeple ! 
But. while we sing -'God save the King,'' 

We'll ne'er forget the People. 

POEM. 

ADDRESSED TO MR. MITCHELL, COLLECTOR OF 
EXCISE, DUMFRIES, 1796. 

Friend of the poet, tried and leal, 
Wha, wanting thee, might beg or steal •. 
Alake, alake, the meikle deil, 

Wi' a' his witches, 
Are at it, skelpin' jig and reel, 

In mv poor pouches. 



BURNS' POETICAL works 



I modestly, f 11 * fain wad hint it. 
That "!!<■ pound one, 1 sairly 'want it; 
If wi' the hizzic down ye sent it. 

It would be kind; 
And while ray heart wi' life-blood dunted 

I'd bear't in mind. 

So may the old year pang out moaning 
To see the new come laden, groaning, 
Wi' double plenty o'er the loaning 

To thee and thine ; 
Domestic peace and comforts crowning 

The hale design. 



POSTSCRIPT. 

Ye've heard this while how I've been licket, 
And by fell death was nearly nicket; 
Grim loon ! he gat me by the fecket, 

And sair me sheuk; 
But, by guid lack, I lap a wicket, 

And tnrn'd a neuk. 
But by that health. I've got a share o't, 
And by that life I'm promised mair o't, 
My hale and weel I'M tak a" care o't 

A tentier way: 
Then farewell folly, hide and hair o't, 

For ance and aye ! 



SENT TO A GENTLEMAN WHOM HE HAD OFFENDED. 

The friend whom, wild from wisdom's way, 
The fumes of wine infuriate send; 

(Not moony madness more astray) 
Who but'deplores that hapless friend? 

Mine was th" insensate frenzied part, 
Ah why should I such scenes outlive ? 

Scenes so abhorrent to my heart, 

"Tis thine to pity and forgive ! 



POEM OX LIFE, 



My honoured colonel, deep I feel 
Your interest in the poet's weal ; 
Ah : how sma' heart hae I to speel 

The steep Parnassus, 
Surrounded thus by bolus pill, 

And potion glasses. 

O. what a canty world were it. 

Would pain and care, and sickness spare it: 

And fortune favour worth and merit, 

As they deserve; 
(And aye a rowth. roast beef and claret ; 

Syne wha would starve ?) 
Dame Life, tho' fiction out may trick her. 
And in paste perns and frippery deck her; 
Oh! flickering, feeble, and unsicker 

I've found her still, 
Aye wavering like the willow wicker, 

'Tween good and ill. 

Then that curst carmagnole, auld Satan, 
Watches like baudrons by a rattan, 
Our sinfu' sanl to get a claut on 

Wi' felon ire ; 
Svne, whip ! his tail yell ne'er cast saut on— 

He's aff like fire. 

Ah Nick ! ah Nick, it is na fair, 
First showing us the tempting ware, 
Bright wines and bonnie lasses rare, 

To put us daft ; 
Svne weave, unseen, th v spider's snare 

O hell's damn'd waft. 



Thy auld damn'd elbow yeuks wi' joy. 

And hellish pleasure ; 
Already in thy fancy's eye, 

Thy sieker treasure ! 
Soon, heels o'er gowdic, in he gangs, 
And like a sheep-head on a tangs, 
Thy girning laugh enjoys his pangs 

And murdering wrestle, 
As, dangling in the wind, he hangs 

A gibbet's tassel. 
But lest you think I am uncivil, 
To plague you with this drannting drivel, 
Abjuring a' intentions evil, 

I quat my pen ; 
The Lord preserve us frae the devil! 

Amen! amen! 



ADDRESS TO THE TOOTH-ACIIE. 

My curse upon thy venom'd stang, 
That shoots my tortur'd gums alang; 
And thro' my lugs giesmony a twang, 

Wi' gnawing vengeance ; 
Tearing ray nerves wi' bitter pang. 

Like racking engines. 

When fevers burn, or ague freezes, 
Rheumatics gnaw, or cholic squeezes ; 
Our neighbour's sympathy may ease us, 

Wi' pitying moan; 
But thee— thou hell o' a' diseases, 

Aye mocks our groan. 
Adown my beard the slavers trickle : 
I throw the wee stools o'er the mickle, 
As round the fire the giglets keckle, 

To see me loup ; 
While raving mad. I wish a heckle 

Were in their doup. 

O' a' the num'rous human dools, 

111 har'sts, daft bargains, cutty stools, 

Or worthy friends raked i' themools, 

Sad sight to see! 
The tricks o' knaves or fash o' fools— 

Thou bear'st the gree. 

Where'er that place be, priests ca' hell, 
Whence a' the tones o' mis'ry yell, 
And ranked plagues their numbers tell, 

In dread fu' raw, 
Tliou, Tooth-ache, surely bear'st the bell, 

Arnang them a' ! 

O thou grim mischief making chiel. 
That gars the notes o' discord squeel, 
'Till daft mankind aft dance a reel 

In gore a shoe-thick, 
(lie a' the faes o' .Scotland's weel 

A towraond's Tooth-ache ! 



SON G. 

Tune— '-Morag.'' 

O, wha is she that lo'es me. 
And has my heart a'keeping. 

O, sweat is she that lo'es me, 
As dews o' simmer weeping, 
In tears the rose-buds steeping. 



CHOKVS. 

O, that's the lassie o' my heart, 
lassie ever dearer; 



"ifj 



O. that's the queen o' womankind, 
And ne'er a ane to peer her. 
If thou shalt meet a lassie, 

In grace and beauty charming, 
That e'en thv chosen lassie, 
Erewhile thy breast sac warming; 
Had ne'er sic powers alarming, 
P, t>>a:'s : A- 



MiiS. DUrtLOP, OF DUXLOF. 



If thori hadst heard her talking-, 
And thy attentions plighted, 

That ilka body talking, 
Bat her by thee is slighted: 
And thou art all delighted: 
O, that's, £c. 

If thou hast met this fatr ene j 
When frae her thou hast parted. 

If every other fair one. 
But her thou hast deserted, 
And thou art broken hearted: 
O, that's, &c 



SONG 
Jockie's ta'cn the parting kiss, 

O'er the mountain he is gaiie ; 
And with him is a" my bliss, 

Nought but griefs with me remain. 
Spare my luve, ye winds that blaw, 

Plashy sleets and beating rain ! 
Spare my hive, thou feathery snaw, 

Drifting o'er the frozen plain I 
When the shades of evening creep 

O'er the day's fair, gladsome e'c, 
Sound and safely may he sleep, 

Sweetly blythe his waukening be ! 

He will think on her he loves, 
Fondly he'll repeat her name ; 

For where'er he distant roves, 
Jockie's heart is still at name. 



SONG 
My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form 
The frost of Hermit age might warm ; 
My Peggy's worth, my Peggy's mind, 
Might charm the first of human kind : 
I love my Peggy's angel air, 
Her face so truly, heavenly fair, 
Her native grace so void of art, 
But I adore my Peggy's heart. 
The lily's hue, the rose's dye, 
The kindling lustre of an eye ; 
"Who but owns their magic sway! 
"Who but knows thev all decay ! 
The tender thrill, the pitying tear, 
The generous purpose, nobly dear, 
The gentle look, that rage disarms— 
These arc all immortal charms. 



W r RITTEN IN A WRAPPER, 

INCLOSING A LETTER TO CAPTAIN GROSE, TO BE 
LEFT WITH MR. CARDONNEL, ANTIQUARIAN. 

Tune—" Sir John Malcolm.'' 
Ken ye ought o' Captain Grose ? 

I go. and ago, 
If he's tinning his friends or foes ? 

Irani, corum, dago. 
Is he South, or is he North ? 

Igo, and ago. 
Or drowned in the river Forth ? 

Irani, coram, dago. 

Is he slain by Higland bodies? 

Igo, and ago, 
And eaten like a wether-haggie? 

Irani, coram, dago. 

Is he to Abram's bosom gane ? 

Igo, and ago, 
Or haudin' Sarah by the wamc ? 

Irani, coram, dago. 
"Where'er he be, the Lord be near him' 

Igo, and ago, 
As for the Deil the daur na steer him, 

Irani, coram, dago. 






But please transmit th" inclosed letter, 

Igo. and ago. 
Which will oblige your humble debtor 

Irani, coram, dago. 

So may you have aula sialics ill store, 

Igo, and ago, 
The very stans that Adam bore, 
Irani, coram, dago. 
>e get in gli 
_ >, and ago. 
The coins o' Satan's coronation! 
Ii'am, coram, dago. 



TO EOBERT GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FlNTRY. 

ON RECEIVING A FAVOUR. 

I call no goddess to inspire my strains, 
A fabled Muse may suit a bird that feigns ; 
Friends of my life ! my ardent spirit burns, 
And all the tribute of my heart returns, 
For boons accorded, goodness ever new, 
The gift still dearer as the giver you. 

Thou orb of day ! thou other paler light ! 
And all ye many sparkling stars of night ! 
If aught that giver from my mind efface ; 
If I that giver's bounty e'er disgrace ; 
Then roll to me, along your wandering spheres, 
Only to number out a villain's years I 



EPITAPH ON A FRIEND. 
An honest man here lies at rest, 
As ever God with his image blest, 
The friend of man, the friend of truth ; 
The friend of age, and guide of youth: 
Few hearts like his, with virtue warni'd, 
Few heads with knowledge so inforni'd : 
If there's another world, he lives in bliss: 
If there is none, he made the best of this. 



A GRACE BEFORE MEAT. 

thou who kindly dost provide 

For ev'ry creature's want ! 
We bless thee, God of nature wide, 

For all thy goodness lent ; 
And if it please thee, heaveniy guide, 

May never worse be sent ; 
But whether granted or denied, 

Lord bless us with content ! 
Amen : 



TO JIT DEAR AND MUCH HONOURED FRIEND, 
MRS. DUNLOP, OF DO.LOP. 

ON SENSIBILITY. 

Sensibility how charming, 
Thou, my friend, canst truly tell; 

But distress, with horrors arming 
Thou hast also known too well ! 

Fairest flower, behold the lily, 

Blooming in the sunnv ray ; 
Let the blast sleep o'er the valley, 

See it postrate on the clay. 
Hear the wood-lark charm the forest, 

Telling o'er his little joys ; 
Hapless bird! a prey thesurest, 

To each pirate of the skies. 
Dearly bought the hidden treasure, 

Finer feelings can bestow: 
Chords that vibrate sweetest pleasure, 

Thrill the deepest notes of woe. 



61 RK3 POETICAL WORKS. 



A VERSE. 

COMPOSED AND REPEATED BY BURNS, TO THE 
MASTER OF THE HOUSE, OX TAKING LEAVE AT A 
PLACE IN THE HIGHLANDS WHERE HE HAD BEEN 
HOSPITABLY ENTERTAINED. 

When death's dark stream I ferry o'er; 

A time that surely shall come ; 
In heaven itself, I'll ask no more, 

Thau just a Highland welcome. 

MY WIFE'S A WINSOME WEE THING. 
She is a whisome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 



I never saw a fairer, 

I never lo'ed a dearer, 

And neist my heart I'll wear her. 

For fear nay jewel tine. 

She is a winsome wee thing, 
She is a handsome wee thing, 
She is a bonnie wee thing, 
This sweet wee wife o' mine. 
The warld's wrack we share o'l. 
The warstle and the care o't : 
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, 
And think my lot divine. 

HIGHLAND MARY. 
Tune—" Katharine Ogie.''' 
Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 

The castle o' Montgomery. 
Green be your woods, and fair your flowers, 

Your waters never drumlie ! 
There simmer first unfauld her robes , 

And there the langest tarry ; 
For there I took the last fareweel 

O' my sweet Highland Mary ! 
How sweetly bloom'd the Ray, green birk, 

How rich the hawthorn's blossom; 
As underneath their fragrant shade, 

I clasp'd her to my bosom ! 
The golden hours, on angel wings, 

Flew o'er me and my dearie ; 
For dear to me as light and life, 

Was my sweet Highland Mary. 

Wi' mony a vow, and lock'd embrace, 

Our parting was in fu' tender ; 
And, pledging aft to meet again, 

We tore ourselves asunder: 
But Oh ! fell death's untimely frost, 

That nipt my flower sae early! 
Now green's the sod and cauld's the clay, 

That wraps my Highland Mary ! 

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, 

I aft hae kissed so fondly! 
And closed for aye, the sparkling glance, 

That dwelt on me sae kindly ! 
And mouldering now in silent du«t 

The heart that lo'ed me dearly ! 
But still within my bosom's core, 

Shall live my Highland Mary. 

AULD BOB MORRIS. 

There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon glen. 
He's the king o' guid fellows and wale of auld 

men; 
IlehasgowJ in his coffers, he has owsen and 

kine, 
And ae bonnie lassie, his darling and mine. 

She's fresh as the morning, the fairest in May; 
She's sweet as the ev'ning amang the new hay ; 
As blythe and as artless as the lambs on the 

lea, 
And dear to ihy heart as the light to my my c'e. 



But Oh ! she's an heiress, auld Robin's a laird, 
And my daddie has nought but a cot-house and 

yard ; 
A wooer like me maunna hope to come speed, 
The wounds I must hide that will soon be mv 

dead. 

The day comes to me, hut delight brings me 

nane; 
The night comes to me, but my rest it is gane ; 
I wander my lane like a night -troubled ghaist, 
And I sigh as my heart it wad burst in my 

breast. 

had she but been of a lower degree, 

1 then might hae hoped she wad smiled upon 

me! 
Oh, how past describing had then been my bliss, 
As now my distraction no wonls can express ! 



DUNCAN GRAY. 
Duncan Gray cam here to woo. 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't 
On blythe Yule night when we were fa'. 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 
Maggie coost her head fu' high, 
Look'd asklent and unco skeigh, 
Gart poor Duncan stand abeigh ; 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't, 

Duncan fieech'd. and Duncan pray'd ; 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Meg was deaf as Ailsa Craig,' ;7 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Duncan sigh'd baith out and in, 
Grat his een baith bleer't and blin', 
Spak o' lowpin' o'er a linn; 

Ha, ha, &c. 

Time and chance are but a tide, 

Ha, ha, <fec. 
Slighted love is sair to bide, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Shall I, like a fool, quoth he, 
For a haughty hizzie die ? 
She may go to— France for mo ! 

Ha, ha, &c. 

How it comes let doctors tell, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Meg grew sick— as he grew hea!, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Something in her bosom wrings, 
For relief a sigh she brings; 
And Oh, her een they spak such things ! 

Ha, ha, Ac. 
Duncan was a lad o' grace. 

Ha, ha. &c 
Maggie's was a piteous case, 

Ha, ha, &c. 
Duncan could na be her death, 
Swelling pity smoor'd his wrath ; 
Now they're crouse and canty baith. 

Ha, ha, the wooing o't. 



_ SON (J. 
Tune—" I had a horse." 
O poortith cauld, and restless love, 

Ye wreck my peace between >;•: 
Yet poortith a I could forgive, * 
An' 'twere na' for my Jeanie. 

O why should fate sic pleasure have, 
Life's dearest bands untwining 'i 

Or why sae sweet a flower as love, 
Depend on fortune's shining ? 

This warld's wealth when I think oil 
It's pride, and a' the lave o't ; 

Fie, fie, on sillv coward man, 
That he should be the slave o't. 
why, &c 



Her e"en sae bonnie blue betray. 

How she repays my passion ; 
But prudence is" her Verword aye, 

She talks of rank and fashion. 
O why, &c. 
O wha can prudence think upon, 

And sic a lassie by him ? 
O wha can prudence think upon, 

And sae in love as I am? 
O why, <fcc. 
How blest the humble cottar's fate !i5 

Ke wooes his simple dearie; 
The silly bogies' wealth and state. 

Can never make them eerie. 

O why should fate sic pleasures have. 
Life's dearest bands untwining? 

Or why sae sweet a flower as love, 
Depend on fortune shining? 



GALA WATEK. 
There's braw, braw lads on Yarrow braes, 

That wander thro' the blooming heather ; 
Hut Yarrow braes, nor Ettrick shaws, 

Can match the lads o' Gala "Water. 

Bat there is ane, a secret ane, 
Aboon them a' I love him better 

xVnd I'll be his, and he'll be mine, 
The bonnie lad o' Gala water. 

Aitho' his daddie was nae laird. 

And tho' I hae na meikle tocher : 
Yet rich in kindness, truest love. 

AVe'll tent our flocks by Gala Water, 

It ne'er was wealth, it ne'er was wealth. 
That cost contentment, peace, or pleasure; 

The bands and bliss o' mutual love. 
O that's the chiefest warld's treasure ! 



LOED GRE GOR Y. 
mirk, mirk, is this midnight hour, 

And loud the tempests roar ; 
A waeful wanderer seeks thy tower, 

Lord Gregory ope thy door. 
An exile frae her father's ha", 

And a' for loving thee; 
At least some pity on me shaw, 

If love it may ria be. 

Lord Gregory, mind'st thou not the grove, 

By bonnie Irwin side, 
Where first I own'd that virgin love 

I lang, lang had denied ? 
How aften didst thou pledge and vow, 

Thou wad for aye be mine ; 
And my fond heart, itsel sae time, 

It never mistrusted thine. 
Hard is thy heart, Lord Gregory, 

And flinty is thy breast— 
Thou dart of heav'n that flashes by. 

O wilt thou give me rest ! 
Ye mustering thunders from above 

Your willing victims see ! 
But spare and pardon my fause love, 

His wrangs to Heaven and me I 



MA BY MORIS OX. 
Tune—" Bide ye yet." 
O Mart, at thy window be, 

It is the wish'd. the trysted hour! 
T-i! ise smiles and glances let me see, 
That makes the miser's treasure poor : 



How blythely wad I bide the stoure, 
A weary slave frae sun to sun ; 

Could I the rich reward secure, 
The lovely Mary Morison. 

Yestreen when to the trembling string, 

The dance gaed thro' the lighted ha' 
To thee my fancy took its wing, 

I sat, but neither heard nor saw ; 
Tho' this was fair, and that was braw, 

And you the toast of a' the town, 
I sigh'd and said, amang them a', 

" Y*e are na Mary Morison." 
Mary, canst thou wreck his peace. 

Wha for thy sake wad gladly die ? 
Or canst thou break that heart of his, 

Wnase only faut is loving thee ? 
If love for love thou wilt nae gie, 

At least be pity to me shown; 
A thought um.'viitlo (anna be 

The thought o' Mary Morison. 



WAXDERIXG WILLIE. 

Here awa, there awa, wandering Willie, 
Xow tired with wandering, haud awa hame 

Come to my bosom, my ain only dearie, 
And tell me thou bring'st me my Willie the 
same. 

Loud blew the cauld winter winds at our parting , 
It was nae the blast brought the tear in my e'e ; 

Xow welcome the simmer, and welcome my 
Willie, 
The simmer to nature, my Willie to me. 

Y"e hurricanes, rest in the cave o' your slum- 
bers ! 
Oh. how your wild horrors a lover alarms ! 
Awaken, ye breezes ! row gently, ye billows ! 
And waft my dear laddie aiice mair to m\ 
arms. 

But if he's forgotten his faithfullest Xannie. 
O still flow between us, thou wide-roaring 



But, dying, believe that my Willie's my am ! 
OPEX THE DOOR TO ME OH I 

WITH ALTERATIONS. 

'•Oh, open the door, some pity to show. 

Oh! open the door to me, Oh ! 
Tho' thon hast been false, I'll ever prove true, 

Oh 1 open the door to me, Oh ! 
Cauld is the blast upon my pale cheek, 

But caulder thy love for me, Oh ; 
The frost that freezes the fife at my heart, 

Is nought to my pains frae thee, Oh ! 
The wan moon is setting behind the white wave, 

And time is setting with me, Oh! 
False friends, false love, farewell ! for mair 

I'll ne'er trouble them nor thee, Oh ! 

She has open'd the door, she has open'd it wide ; 

She sees his pale corse on the plain. Oh ! 
My true love, she cried, and sank down by his 
side, 

Xever to rise again. Oh! 



JESSIE. 
Tune—'-'- Bonnie Dundee." 
True-hearted was he, the sad swain o' the 
Y'arrow, 
And fair are the maids on the banks o' the 
Ayr, 
But by the sweet side o' the Xith's winding 
river, 
Are lovers as faithful, and maidens as fair; 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



To equal young Jessie seek Scotland all over : 

To equal young Jessie you seek it in vain, 
Grace, beauty, and elegance fetter her lover, ' 

And maidenly modesty fixes the chain. 
Oh, fresh is the rose in the gay, dewy morning, 

And sweet is the lily at evening close ; 
But in the fair presence o" lovely young Jessie, 

Unseen is the lily, unheeded the rose. 
Love sits in her smile, a wizard ensnaring; 

Enthron'd in her e'en he delivers his law : 
And still to her charms she alone is a stranger !- 

Her modest demeanor's the jewel of a'. 



Air- 1 - The Mill, Mill O!" 
"When wild war's deadly blast was blawn, 

And gentle peace returning, 
Wi' mony a sweet babe fatherless, 

And mony a widow mourning. 
I left the lines and tented field, 

Where lang I'd been a lodger, 
My humble knapsack a' my wealth, 

A poor and honest sodger. 

A leal, light heart was in my breast, 

My hand unstain'd wi' plunder ; 
And for fair Scotia, harne again, 

I cheery on did wander. 
I thought upon the banks o' Coil, 

I thoiiKht upon my Nancy, 
1 thought upon the witching smile 

That caught my youthful fancy. 

At length I reach'd the bonnie glen, 

Where early life I sported; 
1 pass'd the mill, and trysting thorn, 

Where Nancy aft I courted : 
Wha spied I but my ain dear maid, 

Down by her mother's dwelling! 
And turn'd me round to hide the flood 

That in my e'en was swelling. 

Wi' alter'd voice, quoth I, " Sweet lass, 

Sweet as yon hawthorn's blossom, 
Oh! happy, happy may he be, 

That's dearest to thy bosom! 
My purse is light. I've far to gang, 

And fain wad be thy lodger; 
I've serv'd my king and country lang— 

Take pity on a sodger!" 

Sae wistfully she gaz'd on me, 

And lovelier was than ever: 
Quo' she, "A sodger ance I lo'ed ; 

Forget him shall I never: 
Our humble cot, and hamely fare, 

Ye freely shall partake o't ; 
Tbat galla'nt badge, the dear cockade, 

Ye're welcome for the sake o't ! ' 
She gaz'd— she redden'd like a rose- 
Syne pale like ony lily : 
She sank within my arms, and cried, 

" Art thou my ain clear Willie ?" 
" By Him who made yon sun and sky— 

By whom true love's regarded. 
I am the man ; and thus may still 

True lovers be rewarded. 
The wars are o'er, and I'm come hame, 

And find thee still true-hearted : 
Tho' poor in gear, we're rich in love, 

And mair we'se ne'er be parted." 
Quo' she, "my grandsirc left me gowd, 

A mailin pletush'd fairly; 
And come, my faithful sodger lad, 

Thou'rt welcome to it dearly !'' 

For gold the merchant ploughs the main, 
The farmer ploughs the manor: 

But glory is the sorter's prize, 
The sodger's wealth is honour ; 



The brave poor sodger ne'er despise, 
Nor count him as a stranger! 

Beuiember he's his country's stay 
In day and hour of danger. 



MEG 0' THE MILL. 
Air— " O bonnie Lass will you lie in a Barrack !" 
ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten V 
An' ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten ? 
She has gotten a coof wi' a claut o' siller, 
And broken the heart o' the barley Miller 

The Miller was strappin', the Miller was ruddy ; 
A heart like a lord, and a hue like a lady ; 
The Laird was a widdiefu', bleerit knurl; 
She's left the guid fellow and ta'en the churl. 



ing, 
A fine pacing horse wi' a clear chained bridle, 
A whip by her side, and a bonnie side-saddle. 
wae on the siller, it is sae prevailing; 
And wae on the love that's fix'd on a mailin ! 
A tocher's nae word in a true lover's parle. 
But, gie me my love, and a fig for the waiT ! 

WHISTLE AND ILL COME TO YOU, MY I 
LAD. 

Oh whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad, 
Oh whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad ; 
Tho' father and mither and a' should gae mad, 
Oh whistle, and I'il come to you, my lad. 
But warily tent, when ye come to court me, 
And come na unless the black-yett be a-jec ; 
Syne up the back stile, and let naebody see 
And come as ye were na comin' to me. 
And come, &c. 

Oh whistle, &c. 
At kirk, or at market, whene'er ye meet me, 
Gang by me as tho' that ye cared nae a flie ; 
But steal me a blink o' your bonnie hlacke'e, 
Yet look as ye were nalookin' at me. 
Yet look, &c. 

Oh whistle, &c. 
Aye vow and protest that ye care na for me. 
And whiles ye may lightly my beauty a wee ; 
But court nae anither, tho' jokin' ye be, 
For fear that she wile your fancy frae me. 
For fear, <fcc. 

Oh whistle, &e. 



DAINTY DAVIE. 

Tune— "Dainty Davie."' 

Now rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her gay, green spreading bowers; 
And now comes in my happy hours, 
To wander wi' my Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe, 

Dainty Davie, dainty Davie. 
There I'll spend the day wi' you, 
My ain dear dainty Davie." 
The crystal waters round us fa,' 
The merry birds are lovers a', 
The scented breezes round us blaw, 
A -wandering wi' my Davie. 
Meet me, &c. 

When purple morning starts the hare, 
To steal upon her early fare, 
Then thro' the dews I will repair, 
To meet my faithful Davie. 
Meet me, <£ c. 



CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES. 



When day, expiring in the west, 
The curtain draws o' nature's rest, 
I flee to his arms I lo'e best, 
And that's my ain dear Davie. 

CHORUS. 

Meet me on the warlock knowe, 

Bonnie Davie, dainty Davie, 
There I'll spend the chfy wi' yon, 
My ain dear dainty Davie.iso 



FRAGMENT. 

Tune—"' Saw ye rnv father ?" 

Where are the joys I hae met in the morning, 
That danc'd to the lark's early sang? 

Where is the peace that awaited my wandering, 
At e'enin' the wild woods arming ? 

Nae mair a-winding the course o' yon river, 

And marking sweet flow'rets sae fair: 
Nae mair 1 trace the light footsteps o' pleasure, 

But sorrow and sad sighing care. 
Is it that summer's forsaken our valleys, 

And grim surly winter is near? 
No, no ! the bees humming round the gay roses 

Proclaim it the pride o' the year. 

Fain would I hide, what I fear to discover, 
Yet lang, lang too well hae I known ; 

A' that lias caused the wreck in my bosom 
Is Jenny, fair Jenny alone. 



AFLD LANG SYNE. 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot, 

And never brougbt to min' ? 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot. 

And days o' lang syne ? 

CHORUS. 

For auld lang syne, my dear, 

For auld lang syne, 
We'll tak' a cup o' kindness yet, 
For auld lang syne. 
We twa hae run about the braes, 

And pu'd the gowans line : 
But we've wandered mony a weary foot, 
Sin' auld lang syne. 

For auld, <fec. 

We twa hae paidl't i' the burn, 

Frae mornin' sun till dine: 
But seas between us braid hae roar d. 

Sin' auld lang syne. 

For auld, &c. 
And here's a hand, my trusty fierc, 

And trie's a hand o' thine; * 
And we'll tak' a right guid willie-waught. 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld, <fcc. 
And surely ye'll be your pint-stoup, 

And surely I'll be mine ; 
And well tak' a cup o' kindness yet, 

For auld lang syne. 

For auld, <fcc. 



B A N N O C K B U R N. 

ROBERT BRUCE-'S ADDRESS TO HIS ARMY. 

Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled; 
Scots, wham Bruce has often led ; 
Welcome to your sory bed, 
Or to glorious victory ! 

Now's the day, and now's the hour ; 
See the front o' battle lour ; 
See approach proud Edward's power- 
Edward! chains and slavery! 



Wha will be a traitor knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave ? 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 

Traitor ! coward ! turn and flee ! 
Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Freeman stand, or Freeman fa', 

Caledonia ! on wi" me ! 
By oppression's woes and pains! 
By your sons in servile chains ! 
We will drain our dearest veins, 

But they shall be— shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low ! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in every blow ! 
Forward : let us do, or die ! 



ON THE SEAS AND FAR AWAY 
Tune—'' O'er the Hills," &c. 
How can my poor heart be glad, 
When absent from my sailor lad ? 
How can 1 the thought forego, 
He's on the seas to meet the foe ? 
Let me wander, let me rove, 
Still my heart is with my love : 
Nightly dreams, and thoughts by day 
Are with him that's far away. 

CHORUS. 

On the seas and far away, 
On stormy seas and far away ; 
Nightly dreams and thoughts by day, 
Are aye with him that's far away. 

When in summer's noon I faint. 
As weary flocks around me pant, 
Haply in this scorching sun 
My sailor's thundering at his gun; 
Bullets, spare my only joy ! 
' Bullets, spare my darling boy! 
Fate do with me what you may. 
Spare but him that's far away I 

On the seas, &c. 
At the starless midnight hour, 
When winter rules with boundless power ; 
As the storms the forest tear, 
And thunders rend the howling air ; 
Listening to the doubling roar, 
Surging on the rocky shore, 
All 1 can— I weep aiid pray. 
For his weel that's far away. 

On the seas, &c. 
Peace, thy olive wand extend, 
And bid wild war his ravage end. 
Man with brother man to meet, 
And as a brother kindly greet : 
Then may heaven, with prosp'rous gales, 
Fill my sailor's welcome sails, 
To my arms their charge convey— 
My dear lad that's far away, 

On the seas, <fec. 



CA' THE YOWES TO THE KNOWES. 

CHORUS. 

CA.' the yowes to the knowes, 
Ca' them where the heather grows, 
Ca' them where the burnie rowes, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Hark the mavis' evening sang 
Sounding Cluden's woods amang 100 
Then a-faulding let us gang, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the, &c. 
We'll gae down by Clauden side, 
Thro' the hazels spreading wide, 
O'er the waves that sweetly glide 
To the moon sae clearly. 
Ca' the, &e. 



Yonder Gulden's silent towers, 161 
Where at moonshine midnight hour.-. 
0*er the dewy bending flowers, 
Fairies dance sae cheerie 
Ca' the, <fcc. 

Ghaist nor bogle shalt thou fear: 
Thoa'rt to Love and Heaven sae dear. 
Noeht of ill may come thee near, 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the, <fcc. 

Fair and lovely as thon art. 
Thou hast stown my very heart . 
I can die— but canna part. 
My bonnie dearie. 
Ca' the, <fec. 

While waters wimpie to the sea ; 
While dav blinks in the lift sae, hie : 
Till elay-cauld death shall blin' my e'e 
Ye shall be my dearie. 
Ca' the, Arc. 



.SHE SAYS SHE LO'ES ME BEST DF . 
Tune— "Onagh's Lock." 
Sae flaxen were her ringlets. 

Her eyebrows of a darker hue. 
Bewitchingly o'er-arching 

Twa laughing e'en o' bonnie blue. 
Her smiling, sae willing. 

Wad make a wretch forget his woe ; 
What pleasure, what treasure. 

Unto these rosy lips to grow : 
Such was my Chloris' bonnie face. 

When first her bonnie face I saw. 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm. 

She says she lo'es me best of a'. 

Like harmony her motion : 

Her pretty ancle is a spy 

Betraying fair proportion. 

Wad make a saint, forget the sky. 
Sae warming, sae charming, 

Her faultless form and graceful air ; 
Ilk feature— auld Mature 

Declar'd that she could do nae mair. 
Hers are the willing chains o' love, 

By conquering beauty's sovereign law; 
And aye my Chloris' dearest charm, 
She says she lo'es me best of a". 
Let others love the city. 

And gaudy show at sunny noon; 
Gie me the lonely valley. 

The dewy eve,*and rising moon. 
Fair beaming, and streaming, 

Her silver light the boughs amang: 
While falling, recalling, 

The amorous thrush concludes his sang 
There, dearest Chloris, wilt thou rove 

By wimpling burn and leafy shaw. 

And hear my vows o' truth and love. 

And say thou lo'es me best of a'. 



SAW YE MY I'll ILLY. 
(Quasi dkat PldUix.) 
Tune— " When she came ben she babbit." 
Oh, saw ye my dear, ray Philly? 
Oh, saw ye mj r dear, ray Philly ? 
She's down i' the irrove. sheVwi' a new love, 

She winna come came to her Willie, 

What says she, my dearest, my Philly? 

What says she, my dearest, mv Philly? 

She lets thee to wit that she has thee forgot, 

And for ever disowns thee, her Willie. 

O had I ne'er seen thee, my Philly ! 
O had I ne'er seen thee, my Philly! 
As light as the air, and faiise as thou's fair. 
Thou's broken the heart o' thv Willie. 



POETICAL WORK$. 

HOW LANG AM> BREAK V 1- 
NIGHT. 
Tune—" Cauld kail in Aberdeen.' 
How lang and dreary is the night. 

When I am frae my dearie! 
I restless lie, frae e'en to morn. 
Though I were ne'er sae weary. 

t'HOKUS. 

Yi>v oh. her lanely nights are lan'g ; 

And oh, her dreams are eerie : 
And oh, her widow'd heart is sair, 

That's absent frae her dearie. 

When I think on the lightsome days 

I spent wi' thee, my dearie ; 
And now what seas between us roar, 

How can I be but eerie ? 
For oh, <tc. 
How slow ye move ye heavy hours ■ 

The joyless day how dreary! 
It was na sae, ye glinted by. 

When I was wi' my dearie. 
For oh, &e. 



LET NOT WOMAN E'ER COMPLAIN. 
Tune— "Duncan Gray." 
et not woman e'er complain, 



( if ii 



1 lov< 



nconstani 
Let not woman e'er complain. 

Fickle man is apt to rove; 
Look abroad through Nature's range. 

Nature's mighty law is change ; 
Ladies, would it not be strange ; 

Man should then a monster prove ': 

Mark the winds, and mark the skies; 

Ocean's ebb, and ocean's flow: 
Sun and moon but set to rise, 

Pound and round the seasons go. 
Why then ask of silly man, 

To oppose great Nature's plan? 
We'll be constant while we can— 

Y'on can be no more, you know. 



Tune— " Beil tak the wars.'' 
Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thon, fairest creature ? 

Rosy morn now lift his eye. 
Numbering ilka bud which Nature 

Waters wi' the tears o' joy: 

Now through the leafy woods. ' 

And bv the reeking floods ; 
Wild Nature's tenant-, freely, gladly stray: 

The lintwhite in his bower 

Chants o'er the breathing flower; 

The lav'rock to the sky 

Ascends wi' sangs o' joy. 
While the sun and thon arise to bless the day. 
Phoebus gilding the brow o' morning 

Banishes ilka darksome shade. 
Nature gladdening and adorning: 

Such to me my lovely maid. 
When absent frae my fair, 

The murky shade o' care 
Witli starless gloom o'ercast my sullen sky; 

But when in beauty's light, 

She meets my ravish' d sight, 

When through my very heart 

Her beaming glories dart— 
'Tis then I wake to life, to light and j'03-. 



THE AULD MAN. 
But lately seen in gladsome green, 

The woods rejoiced the day. 
Thro' gentle showers the laughing fl< 

Tn double pride were gav : 



But now our joys are fled. 

On winter blasts awa' ! 
Yet maiden May, in rich array, 

Again shall bring them a'. 
But my white pow, nae kindly thowe 

Shall melt the snaws of age : 
My trunk of elid, but buss or bield, 

Sinks in Time's wintry rage. 
Oh, age has weary days, 

And nights o' sleepless pain ! 
Thou golden time o' youthfu' prime, 

Why comest thou not again ? 

MY CHLOE IS. 

Tune— "My lodging is on the cold ground. ' 
My Chloris, mark how green the grove?, 

The primrose banks how fair ; 
The balmy gales awake the flowers. 

And wake thy flaxen hair. 

The lav'rock shuns the palace gay. 

And o'er the cottage sings : 
For nature smiles as sweet, I ween, 

To shepherds as to kings. 
Let minstrels sweep the skilfu' string 

In lordly lighted ha'. 
The shepherd stops his simple reed. 

Blythe, in the birken shaw. 
The princely revel may survey 

Our rustic dance wi' scorn ; 
But are their hearts as light as curs 

Beneath the milk-white thorn ? 
The shepherd, in the flowery glen, 

In shepherd's phrase will woo : 
The courtier tells a finer tale, 

But is his heart as true 'i 

These wild-wood flowers I've pu'd, to deck 
That spotless breast o' thine : 

The courtier's gems may witness love- 
But 'tis na love like mine. 



SOX G, 

ALTERED FROM AX OLD ENGLISH ONE. 

Tune— U Dainty Davie." 
It was the charming month of May 
When all the flowers were fresh and gay, 
One morning by the break of day, 
The youthful, charming Chloe ; 
From peacefui slumber she arose, 
Girt on her mantle and her hose, 
And o'er the flowerv mead she goes, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 

CHORUS. 

Lovely was she by the dawn. 

Youthful Chloe, charming Chloe, 
Tripping o'er the pearly lawn, 
The youthful, charming Chloe. 
The feather'd people you might see 
Perch'd all around on every tree, 
In notes of sweetest melody 

They hail the charming Chloe : 
'Till, painting gay the eastern skies, 
The glorious sun began to rise, 
OutrivaU'd bv the radiant eves 
Of youthful, charming Chloe. 
Lovely was she, &c. 



LASSIE WI' THE LIXT-WHITE LOCKS 
Tune— "Eothiemurchie's Rant. ' 

CHORES. 

Lassie wi' the lint-white locks, 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie, 

Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks, 
Wilt thou be my dearie O ? 



Now Nature cleeds the flowery lea, 
And a' is young and sweet like thee : 
wilt thou share its joys wi' me. 

And say thou'lt be my dearie O? 

Lassie wi', &c. 

And when the welcome summer-shower 
Has cheer'd ilk drooping little flower, 
We'll to the breathing woodbine bower, 
At sultry noon, my dearie O ! 
Lassie wi', <fec. 

When Cynthia lights, wi' silver ray, 
The weary shearer's hameward way; 
Thro' yellow waving fields we'll stray, 

And talk o' love, my dearie O ! 
Lossie wi', <fcc. 
And when the howling wintry blast 
Disturbs my lassie's midnight rest; 
Enclasped to my faithfu' breast, 

I'll comfort thee, my dearie O ! 

Lassie wi' the lint-white lock c , 
Bonnie lassie, artless lassie. 

Wilt thou wi' me tent the flocks, 
Wilt thou be my dearie ? 



DUE T. 

Tune— "The sow's tail.'' 



O Phillt, happy be that day 
When roving through thegather'd hay, 
My youthfu' heart was stownaway, 
And by thy charms, my Philiy. 

SHE. 

O Willie, aye I bless the grove 
Where first I own'd my maiden love. 
Whilst thou didst pledge the power's above, 
To be my ain dear Willie. 



As songsters of the early year 

Are ilka day to me mair dear 

And charming is my Philiy. 

SHE. 

As on the brier the budding rose 
Still richer breathes and fairer blows 
So in my tender bosom grows 
The love I bear my Willie. 

HE. 

The milder sun and bluer sky, 
That crown my harvest cares wi' joy, 
Were ne'er sae welcome to my eye 
As is a sight of Philiy. 

SHE. 

The little swallow's wanton wing. 
Tho" wafting o'er the flowery spring. 
Did ne'er to me sic tidings bring, 
As meeting o' my Wiliie. 

HE. 

Tire bee, that thro' the sunny hour 
Sips nectar in the opening flower. 
Compar'd wi' my delight is poor, 
Upon the lips o' Philiy. 

SHE. 

The woodbine in the dewy weet 
When evening shades in silence meet, 
Is nocht sae fragrant or sae sweet 
As is a kiss o' Willie. 

HE. 

Let fortune's wheel at random rin. 
And fools may tyne, and knaves may win; 
Mv thoughts'are a' bound upon ane." 
And that's my ain dear Philiy. 



BURNS' POETIC 



What^ a' the joys that gowd can gic? 
1 care nae wealth a single flie ; 
The lad I loves the lad for me. 
And that's my ain dear Willie, 

COSTESTED WI' LITTLE 
Tune—" Lumps o' Pudding." 
Contested wi' little, and cantie wf mair, 
Whene'er I forgather wi' sorrow and care, 
1 gie them a skelp, as they're creeping alang, 
Wi' a cog o' guid sw r ats and an auld Scottish 

sang. 

I whyles claw the elbow o' troublesome 

thought ; 
But man is a sodger. and life is a faught; 
My mirth and guid humour are coin in my 

pouch, 
And my freedom's my lairdship nae monarch 

dare touch. 
A towmond o' trouble, should that he my fa, 
A night o' guid fellowship sowthers it a' ; 
When at the blythe end of our journey at last, 
Wha the deil ever thinks o' the road he has 

past ? 

Blind Chance, let her snapper and stoyte on her 

way, 
Bc't to me, be't frac me, e'en let the jade gae ; 
Come ease, or come travail ; come pleasure or 



pan 



'Welcome and welcome 



CANST THOU LEAVE ME THUS, MY KATY? 
Tum^- l< Boy's Wife." 

CHORUS. 

Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Canst thou leave me thus, my Katy ? 
Well thou know'st my aching heart. 
And canst thou leave me thus for pity ? 

Is this thy plighted fond regard, 

Thus cruelly to part, my Katy? 
Is this thy fathf ul swain's reward— 

An aching, broken heart, my Katy ? 
Canst thou, <fcc. 

Farewell ! and ne'er such sorrows tear 
That fickle heart of thine, my Katy ! 

Thou may'st find those will love thee dear— 
But not a love like mine, my Katy. 
Canst thou, &c. 

MY NANNIE'S AWA'. 

Tune—" There'll never be peace," <fec. 

Now in her green mantle blythe Nature arrays, 

And listens the lambkins that bleat o'er the 

braes, 
Whiie birds warble welcome in ilka green shaw; 
But to me it's delightles— my Nannie' awa' ! 

The snaw-drap and primrose our woodlands 

adorn, 
And violets bathe in the weet o' the morn ; 
They pain my sad bosom, sao sweetly they blaw, 
They mind me o' Nannie— and Nannie's aWa' ! 
Thou lav'rock that springs frae tlie dews o' the 

lawn, 
The shepherd to warn o' the grey-breaking 

dawn. 
And thou mellow mavis, that hails the night- 
fa', 
Give over for pity— my Nannie's awa' ! 
Come autumn, sae pensive, in yellow and gray, 
And soothe me wi' tiding o' Nature's decay : 
The dark, dreary winter, and wild-driving'snaw, 
Alane can delight me — now Nannie's awa'! 



AL WOKKS. 
FOR A' THATj AND A' T H A T\ 
Tune — "For a' that, and a' that." 
Is there, for honest povertv, 

That hangs his head, and a' that! 
The coward slave, we pass him by, 

We dare be poor for a' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Our toils obscure, and a' that! 
The rank is but the guinea's stamp, 

The man's the gowd for a' that. 
What though on namely fare we dine, 

Wear hoddin' grey, and a' that; 
Gie fools their silks, and knaves their wine, 

A man's a man for a' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that.* 

Their tinsel show, and a' that. 
The honest man, though e'er sae poor ; 

Is king o' men for a' that ! 

You see yon birkie, ca'd a lord, 

Wha struts, and stares, and a' that, 
Though hundreds worship at his word, 

He's but a coof for a' that; 
For a' that, and a' that, 

His riband, star, and a' that, 
The man of independent mind, 

He looks and laughs at a' that. 
A prince can mak a belted knight, 

A marquis, duke and a' that ; 
But an honest man's aboon his might, 

Guid faith, he manna fa' that ! 
For a' that, and a' that, 

Their dignities, and a' that, 
The pith o' sense, and pride o' worth, 

Are higher ranks than a' that ! 

Then let us pray that come it may— 

As come it will for a' that — 
That sense and worth, o'er a' the earth, 

May bear the gree, and a' that. 
For a*' that, and a' that, 

Its comin' yet, for a' that. 
That man to man, the warld o'er. 

Shall brothers be for a' that ! 



CKAIGI E-B U R N W O O D. 

Tune — " Craigie-burn Wood. 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn, 

And blythe awakes the morrow, 
But a' the pride o' spring's return 

Can yield me nocht but sorrow. 
I see the flowers and spreading trees, 

I hear the wild birds singing; 
But what a weary wight can please, 

And care his bo'som wringing? 
Fain, fain would I my griefs impart, 

Yet dare na for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart, 

If I conceal it langer. 

If thou refuse to pity me, 

If thou shalt love anither, 
When yon green leaves fade frae the tree, 

Around my grave they'll whithcr,i<>i 



S N G. 
Tune— "Let me in this ae night." 
O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet ? 

Or art thou wakin', I would wit? 
For love has bound me hand and foot, 
And I would fain be in, jo. 

CHORUS. 
Oh let me in this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night, 
For pity's sake this ae night, 

Oh rise and let me in, jo. 



Thou hear'st the winter wind and weet, 
Nae star blinks thro' the driving sleet, 
Tak pity on my weary feet, 
And shield me frae the rain, jo. 
Oh let me in, &c. 

The bitter blast that round me blaws 
Unheeded howls, unheeded fa's ; 
The cauldness o' thy heart's the cause 
Of a' my grief and pain, jo. 
Oh let me in, &c. 

HER ANSWER. 

O Tell na me o' wind and rain, 
Upbraid na mc wi' cauld disdain ; 
Gac back the gait ye cam again, 
I winna let you in, jo! 

CHORUS. 

I tell you now this ae night, 

This ae, ae, ae night; 
And ance for a' this ae night ; 
I winna let you in, jo ! 
The snellest blast, at mirkest hours. 
That round the pathless wand'rer pours, 
Is nought to what poor she endures 
That's trusted faithless man, jo! 
I tell you now, <tec. 
The sweetest flower that deck'd the mead, 
Now trodden like the vilest weed: 
Let simple maid the lesson read, 
The weird may be her ain, jo I 
I tell you now, <fcc. 

The bird that charm'd his summer-day, 
Is now the cruel fowler's prey ; 
Let witless, trusting woman "say, 
How aft her fate's the same, "jo ! 
I tell you now, <tc. 

ADDRESS TO THE WOODLARK. 

Tunc—''- Where'll bonnie Annie lie."' Or, "Loch- 
Eroch Side." 
Oh stay, sweet warbling wood-lark, stay! 
Nor quit for me the trembling spray; 
A helpless lover courts thy lay, 
Thy soothing, fond complaining. 

Again, again that tender part, 
That I may catch thy melting art : 
For surely that wad touch her heart, 
Wha' kills me wi' disdaining. 

Say was thy little mate unkind, 

And heard thee as the careless wind? 

Oli ! nocht but love and sorrow join'd, 

Sic notes o' woe could wauken. 
Thou tells o' never-ending care; 
O' speechless grief, and dark despair, 
For pity's sake, sweet bird, nae mair, 

Or my poor heart is broken ! 



HOW CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS. 

Hear me, pow'rs divine ! 






ON C II L R I S BEING ILL. 
Tune— "Arewakin' O!" 

CHORUS. 

Long, long the night, 
Heavy comes the morrow. 

"While my soul's delight, 
Is on her bed of sorrow. 

Can I cease to care, 
Can I cease to languish, 

"While my darling fair 
Is on the couch of anguish 
Long, &c. 

Every hope is fled, 

Every fear is terror: 
Slumber e'en I dread, 

Every dream is horror. 
Long, &c, 



Oh, in pity hear mc ! 
Take aught else of mine, 
But my Chloris spare me ! 
Long, <fcc. 



CALEDONI A. 

Tune—" Humours of Glen." 

Their groves o' sweet myrtle let foreign lands 
reckon, 
"Where bright-beaming summers exalt the per- 
fume, 
Far dearer to me yen lone glen o' green breckan, 
WT the burn stealing under the laug yellow 
broom. 
Far dearer to me are yon humble broom bowers. 
Where the blue-bell and gowan lurk lowly un- 
seen : 
For there, lightly tripping amang the wild 
flowers, 
A-listening the linnet, aft wanders my Jean. 

Tho' rich is the breeze in their gay sunny val- 
leys, 
And cauld Caledonia's blast on the wave ; 
Their sweet-scented woodlands that skirt the 
proud palace, 
What are they ?— The haunt of the tyrant and 
slave ! 

The slave's spicy forests, and gold-bubbling 
fountains. 
The brave Caledonian views wi' disdain ; 
He wanders as free as the winds of his moun- 
tains. 

—the chains o' his 



S O N G. 
Tune—" Laddie, lie near me." 
'Twas na her bonnie blue e'e was my ruin ; 
Fair tho' she be, that was ne'er my undoing : 
'Twas the dear smile when nae body did mind 



Sair do I fear that to hope is denied me, 
Sair do I fear that despair maun abide me ; 
But tho fell fortune should fate us to sever, 
Queen shall she be in my bosom for ever. 
Mary, I'm thine wi' a passion sincerest, 
And thou hast plighted me love o' the dearest I 
And thou'rt the angel that never can alter, 
Sooner the sun in his motion would falter. 



HOW^ CRUEL ARE THE PARENTS. 

ALTERED FROM AN OLD ENGLISH SONG. 

Air— "■ John Anderson my jo." 
How cruel arc the parents 

Who riches only prize ; 
And to the wealthy booby, 

Poor woman sacrifice ! 
Meanwhile the hapless daughter 

Has but a choice of strife— 
To shun a tyrant father's hate, 

Become a wretched wife. 
The rav'ning hawk pursuing. 

The trembling dove thus fiies, 
To shun impelling ruin 

A while her pinions tries ; 
'Till of escape despairing, 

No shelter or retreat, 
She trusts the ruthless falconer, 

And drops beneath his feet. 



And safe beneath the shady thorn 

Defies the angler's art: 
My life was ance that careless stream, 

That wanton trout was I ; 
But love, wi' unrelenting beam, 

Has scorch'd my fountains dry. 
The little flow'ret's peaceful lot, 

In yonder cliff that grows, 
Which save the linnet's flight, I wot, 

Nae ruder visit knows, 



76 BtTBHS' POET 

S X G. 
Tune—" Deiltake the wars." 
Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion, 

hound the wealthy, titled bride : 
But when compared with real passion, 

Boor is all that princely pride ! 

"What are the showy treasures'? 

"What are the noisy pleasures'/ 
The gay, gaudy glare of vanity and art ; 

The polish d jewel's blaze 

May draw the wond'ring gaze, 

And courtly grandeur bright 

The fancy may delight, 
But never, never can come near the heart. 

But did you see my dearest Chloris. 

In Simplicity's array ; 
Lovely as yonder sweet opening flower is, 

Shrinking from the gaze of day. 

Oh then the heart alarming, 

And all resistless charming. 
In Love's delightful fetters she chains the wi 
ing soul ! 

Ambition would disown 

The world's imperial crown, 

Even Avarice would deny 

His worshipp'd deity, 
And feel thro' every vein Love's raptures roll. 

SONG. 

Tune—" This is no my ain House." 

CHORUS. 

On this is no my ain lassie, 

Fair tho' the lassie be ; 
Oh weel ken I my ain lassie, 

Kind love is in her e'e ! 

1 see a form, I see a face, 
Ye weel may wi' the fairest place : 
It wants to me the witching grace, 
The kind love that's in her e'e. 
O this is no, &c. 

She's bonnie, blooming, straight, and tall, 
And lang has. had my heart in thrall; 
And aye it charms my very saul, 

The kind love that's in her e'e. 
Oh this is no, &c. 
A thief sae pawkie is my Jean, 
To steal a biink by a' unseen ; 
But gleg as light are lovers' e'en. 

When kind love is in her e'e. 
Oh this is no, &c. 
It may escape the courtly sparks, 
It may escape the learned clerks ; 
But weel the watching lover marks, 

The kind love that's in her e'e. 
Oh this is no, &c. 

SCOTTISH SONG. 
Now spring has clad the grove in green, 

And strew'd the lea wi' flowers ; 
The furrow'd, waving corn is seen 

Rejoice in fostering showers ; 
While ilka thing in nature join 

Their sorrows to forego, 
O why thus all alone are mine 

The weary steps of woe ! 



ical works. 

Was mine ; till love has o'er me past, 

And blighted a' my bloom, 
And now beneath the with'ring blast, 

My youth and joy consume. 

The waken' d lav'rock warbling springs, 

And climbs the early sky, 
Winnowing blythe her dewy wings 

In morning's rosy eye ; 
As little reekt 1 sorrow's power, 

Until the flowery snare 
witching love, in luckless hour, 

Made me the thrall o' care. 

Oh had my fate been Greenland's snows, 

Or Afric's burning zone, 
Wi' man and nature leagu'd my foes, 

So Peggy ne'er I'd known ! 
The wretch whase doom is, " hope nae malr," 

That tongue his woes can tell! 
Within whase bosom, save despair, 

Nae kinder spirits dwell. 



SCOTTISH SONG. 

Bonnie was yon rosy brier, 

That blooms sae far frae haunt o' man ; 
And bonnie she, and ah ! how dear ! 

It shaded frae the e'enin' sun. 

Yon rosebuds in the morning dew, 

How pure, amang the leaves sae green! 
But purer was the lover's vow 

They witness'd in their shade yestreen. 
All in its rude and prickly bower, 

That crimson rose, how sweet and fair ! 
But love is far a sweeter flower 

Amid life's thorny path o' care. 

The pathless wild, and wimpling burn, 
Wi' Chloris in my arms, be mine ; 

And I the world, nor wish, nor scorn, 
Its joys and griefs alike resign. 



SONG. 

'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair friend, 

Nor thou the gift refuse, 
Nor with unwilling ear attend 

The moralizing Muse. 

Since thou, in all thy youth and charms, 

Must bid the world adieu, 
(A world 'gainst peace in constant arms) 

To join the friendly few. 

Since thy gay morn of life o'ercast, 

Chill came the tempest's lour; 
(And ne'er misfortune's eastern blast 

Hid nip a fairer flower :) 



Thine is the self-approving glow, 

On conscious honour's part ; 
And, dearest gifts of heaven below, 

Thine Friendship's truest heart. 
The joys refined of sense and taste 

With every Muse to rove ; 
And doubly were the poet blest 

These joys could he improve. 



ENGLISH SONG. 

Tune—" Let me in this ae Night." 
Forlorn, my love, no comfort near, 
Far, far from thee, I wander here ; 
Far, far from thee, the fate severe 
At which I most repine, loye. 



Oh wert thou 1< 



Around nic scowls a wintry sky. 
That blasts each bud of hope and joy; 
And shelter, shade, nor home have I, 
Save in those arms of thine, love. 
Oh wert, &c. 

Cold, alter' d friendship's cruel part, 
To poison fortune's ruthless dart- 
Let me not break thy faithful heart, 

And say that fate is mine, love. 
Oh wert, <fcc. 
But dreary tho' the moments fleet. 
Oh let me think we yet shall meet ! 
That only ray of solace sweet 

Can on thy C Moris shine, love, 
Oh wert, etc. 

SCOTTISH BALL A D. 
Tune—" The Lothian Lassie." 
Last May a Draw wooer cam flown the lang 
glen. 
And sair wi" his love he did deave me ; 
I said there was naorinng I hated like men— 
The deuce gae wi'm, to believe me, believe 

me ; 
The deuce gae wi*m, to believe me ! 



The 



his proffers : 
or car"d, 
iur offers, t\ 



A weel-stocked mailon — 

And maiTiage afi-ham" 
I never loot on that I ke 

But thought I might 
offers : 

But thought l might has waur offers. 

But what wad ye think? — in a fortnight or less, 
The deil tak his taste to go near her! 

He up the lang loan to my black cousin Bess 
Guess ye how, the jacid! 1 could bear her, 

could bear her, 
Guess ye how, the jaucl! 1 could bear her. 

But a' the niest week as I fretted wi' care, 
1 gaed to the tryste o' Dalgarnock, 

And wha but my tine fickle lover was there ! 
I glower'd as I'd seen a warlock, a warlock; 
1 glower'd as I'd seen a warlock. 

But owre my left shoulder I gae him a blink, 
Lestneibors misht sav I was sancv: 

My wooer he cap 



And 


vow'd I y 


as hi 


dear la 


si € 


. d 


•ai 


lassie : 


And 


vow'd 1 Ti 


as hi 


dear la 


sie 








spiei 


'd for my cousin. fa : couthy ai 


id 


sweet, 


Gin 


she had recovei 


: :. :■ :. 


ar. 








ndh 


ow her ne 


v shoon fit he 


• ai 


Ti 


sa 


jhl't feet, 


But. 


heavens 
wearily ! 


ho 


v he ft 


11 


a 


sw 


earin', a 


But J 


heavens ! 


hOW 


he fell a 




mu 


in' 





Fie begged, for Gnidsake ! I wad be his wife 
Or else I would kill him wi' sorrow : 

So e'en to preserve the poor body in life, 
1 think I maun wed him to-morrow; 
1 think I maun wed him to-morrow. 

FRAGMENT. 
Tune—" The Caledonian Hunt's delight.' 
Why, why tell thy lover, 

Bliss he never must enjoy? 
Why, why undeceive him. 

And give all his hopes the lie 



why, while fancy, raptur'd, slumbers 
Chloris. Chloris all the theme — 

Why. why wouldst thou, cruel. 
Wake thy lover from his dream ? 



HEY FOE A LASS WI' A TOCHER. 
Tune— "Balinamonia Ora." 



rhen hey for a lass wi' a 
lass wi' a tocher, 

rhen hey for a lass wi' a 
low guineas for me. 



;ocher, then hey for a 
tocher — the nice yel- 



Your beauty's a flower, in the morning that 

blows, 
And withers the faster, the faster it grows ; 
But the rapturous charm o' the bonnie green 

knowes, 
Ilk spring they're new deck-it wi' bonnie white 

yowes. 

Then, hey, Are. 

And e'en when this beauty your bosom has 
blest, 

The brightest o' beantv may clov, when pos- 
sest ; 

But the sweet yellow darlings wi' Geordie im- 
prest. 

The lancer ve hac them — the mair thev're 
cares t. 

Then, hey, etc. 

JESS Y. 
Tune — " Here's a health to them that's awa'." 
Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear ! 
Here's a health to ane 1 lo'e dear ! 
Thou art sweet as the smile when fond lovers 

meet. 
And soft as the parting tear— Jessy ! 
Although thou maun never be mine, 

Although even hope is denied, 
'Tis sweeter for thee despairing. 
Than aught in the world beside— Jessv ! 
Here's health, &c. 

I mourn thro' the gay. gaudy day. 

As hopeless, I muse on thy charms ; 
But welcome the dream o' sweet slumber, 

For then I am lock't in thy arms— Jessy 1 
Here's a health, &c. 

I guess by the dear angel smile, 

1 guess* by the love-rolling e'e : 
But why urge the tender confession, 

'Gains't fortune's fell cruel decree— Jessy! 
Here's a health. Arc. 



S O N G. 
Tune— "Rothiemnrchie." 
Fairest maid on Devon banks. 

Crystal Devon, winding Devon, 
Wilt thou lay that frown aside, 
And smile as thou were wont to do ? 
Full well thou know'st I love thee dear, 
Couldst thou to maliee lend an ear ? 
O did not love exclaim, "Forbear! 
Nor use a fathful lover so!" 
Fairest maid, <fcc. 

Then come, thou fairest of the fair, 
Those wonted smiles. Oh let me share ! 
And by that beauteous self I swear, 
Xo love but thine mv heart t'aail know! 
Fairest maid, ctc.iss 



sosi ;. 



Time—" The last time I came o'er the Moor." 

Farewell, thou stream that winding flows 

Around Maria's dwelling! 
All cruel mem'ry ! spare 1 lie throes 

Within my bosom swelling- 
Condemned to drag a hopeless chain, 

And still in secret languish; 
To feel a tire in every vein, 

Yet dare not speak my anguish. 

The wretch of love, unseen, unknown, 

I fain my crime would cover : 
The bursting sigh, th' unweeting groan, 

Betray the hopeless lover. 
I know my doom must be despair, 

Thou wilt, nor canst relieve me 
But, oh! Maria, hear one prayer, 

For pity's sake forgive me ! 

The music of thy tongue I heard, 

Nor wist while it ori-dav'd me ; 
I saw thine eyes, yet nothing fear'd, 

'Till fears no inure had saved me. 
The unwary sailor thus aghast, 

The wheeling torrent viewing; 
'Mid circling horrors yields at last 

To overwhelming ruin. 



BONNIE J E A X. 

There was a lass, and she was f..ir, 
At kirk and market to be seen; 

When a' the fairest maids were met, 
The fairest maid was bonnie Jean. 

And aye she wrought her mararaie's wark, 
And aye she sang sue merrilic; 

The blvthest bird upon the bush 
Had ne'er a lighter heart than she. 

But hawks will rob the tender jovs 
That bless the little lintwhite's nest ; 

And frost will blight the fairest flowers, 
And love will break the soundest rest. 

Young Kobie was the brawest lad, 
The flower and pride of a' the glen ; 

And he had owsen. sheep, and kye, 
And wanton naigics nine or ten. 

He gaed v.T Jennie to the tryst, 
Ik- danced wi' jeanie on the down; 

And king ere witless Jeanie wist, 
Her heart was tint, her peace was stown. 

As in the bosom o' the stream. 

The moon-beam dwells at dewy e'en; 
So trembling pure, was tender love 

Within ti;e breast o' bonnie Jean. 
And now she works her mammie's wark, 

And ave she sighs wi" care and pain; 
Yet wisf na what her ail might be. 

Or what wad male her weel again. 



BUIiXS' POETICAL WORKS. 

Now what could artless Jeanie d 
She had nae will to say him na : 



But did in 

And did 

Ai Kobiel 



Jea 



ap light, 



"Oh! Jeanie fair. 1 lo'e thee dear; 

Oh. canst thou think tofancv me? 
Or wilt thou leave thy mammie's cot. 

And learn to tent th 2 farms wi' me? 

At barn or byre thou Shalt na drudge, 
Or naething else to trouble thee ; 

But stray aiming the heather-bells, 
And tent the waving eoni wi' me." 



At length she blushed a sweet consent, 
And love was aye between them twa. 

BALLADS OX MR. HERON'S ELECTIONS. 
THE FIVE CARLINES. 

[BALLAD FIRST,] 

There were fivecarlines m the south, 

They fell upon a scheme, 
To send a. lad to Lon'on town, 

To bring them tidings name. 
Nor only bring them tidings hame, 

But do their errand- there. 
And aiblins gowd and honour baith 

Might be that laddie's share. 
There was Maggie by the banks o' Nilh.NJi 

A dame with pride eneugh, 
And Marjory o' the Monyloehs,iG5 

A carline old and tengh. 
And blinkin' Bess o' Annandale,iec 

That dwelt near Solwavside, 
And Whisky Jean, that took her gill, 

In Galloway's 7 sac wide. 
And Black Joan, frac Crichton Peel, '63 

O' gipsy kith and kin- 
Five wighter carlines warna fonn' 

Tlie south countrie within. 

To send a lad to Lon'on town, 

They met upon a day, 
And mony a knight, and mony a laird, 

Their errand fain would gae. 
Oh. mony a knight and mony a laird, 

This errand fain would gae ; 
But nae ane could their fancy please, 

Oh, ne'er a ane but twae. 
The first he was a belted knight^ 



And he wad do their errands weel 

And meikle he wad say, 
And ilka ane at Lon'on court 

Would bid to him guid-day. 

Then next came in a sodger youth, ' 7 <> 

And spak wi' modest grace, 
And he wad gae to Lon'on town, 

If sac their pleasure was. 

He wadna hecht them courtly gifts, 

.Nor meikle speech pretend, 
But he wad hecht an honest heart, 

Wad ne'er desert a friend. 
Now, wham to choose, and wham refuse 

At strife thir carlines fell! 
For some had gentle folks to please, 

And some would please themsel'. 

Then out spak mim-mou'd Meg 0' Xith, 

And she spak up wi' pride, 
And she wad send the sodger youth, 

Whatever might betide. 



For the auld guidman 
She didna care a pin ; 



Lon'on court*"* 



nd the sodger youth 

To greet his eldest son.l"2 

Then up sprang Bess o' Annandale, 

And a deadly aith she's ta'en, 
That she wad vote the border knight, 

Though she should vote her lane. 
For far-aff fowls hue feathers fair, 

And fools <y change are fain : 
But I hae tried the border knight, 

And I'll try him yet again. 



THE ELECTION. 



Says Black Joan frae Crichton Peel, 

A carline stoor and grim, 
The auld guidman, and the young guidman, 

For nae may sink or swim ; 

For fool will freit o' right or wrang, 
"While knaves laugh "them to scorn : 

But the sodger's friends hae blawn the best. 
So he shall bear the horn. 

Then "Whisky Jean spak owre her drink, 

Ye weel ken, kimmers a". 
The auld guidman o' Lon'on court, 

His back's been at the wa' : 

And mony a friend that kiss'd his cup, 

Is now a f remit wight : 
But it's ne'er be said o' Whisky Jean— 

I'll send the border knight. 

Then slow raise Marjory o' the Loch, 

And wrinkled was her brow, 
Her ancient weed was russet grey, 
Her auld Scots bluid was true; 

There's some great folks set light by me— 

I set as light by them ; 
But I will sen' to Lon'on town 

"Wham I like best at liamc. 
Sac how this weighty plea may end, 

Nae mortal wight can tell : 
Gol grant the king and ilka man 

3Iay look weel to himscl'. 

[BALLAD SECOND.] 

Whom will you send to London town, 

To Parliament and a' that ? 
Or wha in a' the country round 
The best deserves to fa' that ? 
For a' that, and a' that. 
Thro' Galloway, and a that : 
Where is the laird or belted knight 
That best deserves to fa' that ? 
Wha sees Kerroughtree's open yett ? 

And wha is't never saw that ? 
Wha ever wi' Kerroughtree's met, 
And has a doubt of a' that? 
For a' that, and a' that. 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ! 
The independent patriot, 
The honest man, and a' that. 
Tho' wit and worth in either sex, 
St. Mary's Isle can shaw that ; 
Wi' dukes and lords let Selkirk mix, 
And weel does Selkirk fa' that. 
For a" that, and a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ! 
The independent commoner 
Shall be the man for a' that 
But why should we to nobles jonk ? 

And is't against the law that i 
For why. a lord may lie a goiik, 
Wi' ribbon, star, and a' that. 
For a' that, and a" that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ! 
A lord may be a lousy loun, 
Wi' ribbon, star, and a' that. 
A beardless boy comes o'er the hills, 

Wi' uncle's purse and a' that; 
But we'll hae ane frae 'mang oursels, 
A man Ave ken, and a' that, 
For a' that, and a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that! 
For we're not to be bought and sold, 
Like naigs-, and nowt, and a' that. 
Then let us drink the Stewartry, 

Kerroughtree's laird, and a' that, 
Our representative to be, 
For well he's worthy a' that, 
For a' that, and a' that, 
Here's Heron yet for a' that ! 
A House o' Commons such as he, 
They would bj bk.t that ww that. 



THE ELECTION, 

[BALLAD THIRD.] 

Ft. let us a' to Kircudbright, 

For there will be bickerin' there ; 
For Murray's light horse are to muster, 

And oh, how the heroes will swear \ 
And there will be Murray commander, 

And Gordon the battle to win ; 
Like brothers they il stand by each other, 

Sae knit in alliance an' sin. 
And there will be black-lippit Johnnie 

The tongue o' the trump to them a ; 
An' he gets na hell for his haddin , 

The deil gets us justice ava'; 
And there will be Kempleton's birkie, 

A boy no sae black at the bane, 
But, as for his fine nabob fortune, 

We'li e'en let the subject alane. 
And there will be Wigton's new sheriff; 

Dame Justice fu' brawlic has sped ; 
She's gotten the heart of a Bush by, 

But, Lord, what's become o' the head ? 
And there will be Cardoness, Esquire, 

Sae mighty in Cardoness' eyes ; 
A wight that will weather damnation, 

For the deil the prey will despise. 

And there will be Douglasses doughty, 

New christ'ning towns far and near; 
Abjuring their democrat doings, 

By kissing the— o' a peer ; 
And there will be Kenmure sae gen'rous ! 

Whose honour is proof to the, storm ; 
To save them from stark reprobation, 

He lent them his name to the firm. 
But we winna mention Rcdcastle, 

The body, e'en let hint' escape ; 
He'd venture the gallows for siller, 

An' 'twere not the cost o' the rape. 
And where is our king's lord lieutenant, 

Sae fain'd for his gratefu' return ? 
The billie is getting his questions. 

To say in St. Stephen's the morn. 

And there will be lads o" the gospel, 

Muirhead wha's as guid as he's true : 
And there will be Buittle's apostle, 

Wha's more o' the black than the blue ; 
And there will he folk from St. Mary's, 

A house o' great merit and note , 
The deil ane but honours them highly— 

The deil ane will gie them his vote": 

And there will be wealthy young Richard, 

Dame Fortune should King by the neck ; 
For prodigal, thriftless, bestowing, 

His merit had won him respect: 
And there will be rich brother nabobs, 

Tho' nabobs, yet men of the first, 
And there will be Collieston's whiskers, 

And Quentin, o' lads not the warst. 
And there will be stamp-office Johnnie, 

Tak tent how ye purchase a drain ; 
And there will be gav ('asseiiearric. 

And there will be gleg Colonel Tain ; 
And there will be trusty Kerroughtree, 

Whose honour was ever his law; 
If the virtues were packed in a parcel, 

His worth might be sample for a'. 
And can we forget the auld major, 

Wha'll ne'er be forgot in tho Greys ? 
Our flatt'ry we'll keep for some other, 

Him only 'tis justice to praise. 
And there' will be maiden Kilkerran, 

And also Barskimming's guid knight, 
And there will be roarin' Birtwhistle, 

Wha, luckily, roars in the right. 
And there frae the Niddesrlale borders. 

Will mingle the Maxwells in droves : 
Teugh Johnnie, staunch Geordie, and Wattie. 

That griens for the ikhob and loaves; 



.vder Bin: 



BUKNSf 

1 Mac Douall, 
ill be there, 
aUoway, 



POETICAL WORK. 1 



And also th 
Sodgerin' 

Then hey the chaste int'rest o' Broughton, 

And hey for the blessings 'twill bring! 
It may send Bahnaghie to the Commons, 

In Sodom 'twould make him a king; 
And hey for the sanctified Murray, 

Our land who wi' chapels has stor'd ; 
lie founder'd his horse anions harluts, 

But gied the old naig to the Lord. 

AX EXCELLENT NEW SONG. 

[BALLAD FOURTH.] 

Tune—'-- Buy broom besoms." 
Wha will buy my troggin 

Fine election ware; 
Broken trade o' Brought on, 
A' in high repair. 

Buy braw troggin. 

Frae the banks o' Dee ; 
Who wants troggin 
Let him come to me. 

Here's a noble Earl's 

Fame and high renown 
For an auld sang— 

It's thought the gudes were stovrn. 
Buy braw troggin, Arc. 
Here's the worth o' Broughton 

In a needle's e'e : 
Here's a reputation 

Tint by Balmaghie, 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 

Here's an honest conscience, 

Might a prince adorn ; 
Frae the downs o' Tinwald— 
So was never worn. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 
• Here its stuff and lining, 
O' Cardoness's head; 
Fine for a sodger 
A' the wale o' lead. 

Buy braAv troggin, <fcc. 

Here's a little wadset, 

Buittle's scrap o' truth, 
Pawn'd in a gin shop,. 
Quenching holy drouth. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 
Here's armorial bearings, 
Frae tho manse o' Urr ; 
The crest, an auld crab-apple 
Rotten at the core. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 
Here is Satan's picture, 

Like a bizzard gled, 

Pouncing poor Rcdcastle, 

Sprawlin' like a taed. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 
Here's the worth and wisdom 

Collieston can boast ; 
By a thievish midge 
They had been nearly lost. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 
Here is Murray's fragments 

O' the ten commands ; 
Gifted by black Jock, 
To get them aff his hands. 

Buy braw troggin, &c. 
Saw ye e'er sic troggin ? 

If to buy ye'er slack, 
Ilornio's turnin' chapman— 
He'll buy a' the pack. 

Buy braw troggin 

Frae the banks o' Dee ; 
Wha wants troggin 
Let him come to me. 



JOHN BUSHBY'Si-3 LAMENTATION. 

[BALLAD FIFTH J 

Tune— " The Babes in the Wood." 
'Twas in the seventeen hundred year 

O' Christ, and ninety-five. 
That year I was the wae'est man 

O' ony man alive. 

In March, the three-and-twenf ieth da v. 

The sun rose clear and bright ; 
But oh, I was a waeful man 

Ere toofa' o' the night. 

Yerl Galloway lang did rule this land 

Wi' equal right and fame, 
And thereto was his kinsman join'd 

The Murray's liable name ! 
Yerl Galloway lang did rule the land 

Made me the judge o' strife; 
But now Y'crl Galloway's se-'Kro's broke, 

And eke my hangman's knife. 

'Twas by the banks o' bonnio Fee, 
Beside Kirkcudbright towers. 

The Stewart and the'Murray there, 
Bid muster a' their powers. 

The Murray, and the auld gray yaud, 

Wi' winged spurs did ride. 
That auld gray yaud, yea, Nidsdale rad.e, 

He staw upon Nidside. 
And there had been the Yerl himsel', 

Oh, there had been nae play: 
But Garlics was to London gane, 

And sae the kye might stray. 
And there was Balmaghie, I ween, 

In the front rank he. wad shine ; 
But Balmaghie had better been 

Drinking Madeira wine. 

Frae the Glenkens came to our aid 

A chief o' doughty deed, 
In case that worth should wanted be, 

O' Kenmore we had need. 

And there sae grave Squire Cardoness 

Look'd on till a' was done ; 
Sae, in a tower o' Cardoness, 

A howlet sits at noon. 

And there led I the Bushbys a'; 

My gamesome billie Will, 
And my son Maitland, wise as brave, 

My footsteps follow'd still. 

The Douglas and the Heron's name, 

We sctfi<>u-hi to their score: 
The Douglas and the Heron's name 

Had felt our weight before. 
But Douglasses o' weight had we, 

The pair o' lusty lairds, 
For building cot-houses sac famed, 

And christening kail yards-. 
And by our banners march'd Muirhead, 

And Buittle was mi slack : 
Whose holy priesthood nane can stain, 

For wha can dye the black 1 J 

THE HIGHLAND WIDOW'S LAMENT. 
On! I am come to the low countrie, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie! 
Without a penny in my purse, 

To buy a meal to me. 
It was na sae in the Highland hills, 

Och-on. och-on, och-rie! 
Nae woman in the countrie wide 

Sae happy was as me. 
For then I had a score o' kye, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Feeding on the lulls so high. 

And givirf "uilk to \vf 



HOLY WILLIE'S PRAYER. 



And there I had three score o' yowes, 

Och-on, och-on, och-rie ! 
Skipping- on yon bonme knowes, 

And casting woo' to me. 

I was the happiest o' a clan, 

Sair. sair may 1 repine ; 
For Donald v.- as the brawest lad, 

And Donald he was mine. 

Till Charlie Stewart cam* .at last, 

Sae far to set ns free : 
My Donald s arm was wanted then, 
_ For Scotland and for me. 

heir waefu' fate what need I tell? 
Eight to the wrang did yield. 
My Donald and his country fell 
Upon Culloden's field. 

Oh ! 1 am come to the low countrie, 

Ocivon, och-on, och-rie ! 
Nae woman in the world wide 

Sae wretched now as me. 

EL EG Y. 
ON THE BEATH OF ROBEET RUISSEAUX.l"* 

Now Robin lies in his last lair, 

He'll gabble rhyme nor sing nae mair; 

Canid poverty, wi' hungry stare, 

Nae mair shall fear him ; 
Nor anxious fear, nor cankert care 

E'er mair come near him. 
To tell the truth, they seldom fash'd him, 
Except the moment that they crush'd him ; 
Tor soon as chance or fate had hush'd em, 

Though e'er sae short, 
Then wi' a rhyme or sang lit- lash'd em, 
And thought it sport. 

Though he was born to kintra wark, 
And counted was baith wight and stark, 
Yet that was never Robert's mark, 

To mak a man: 
But tell him he was learn'd and dark, 

Ye roosed him then ! 

EPISTLE TO JOHN GOUDIE, 

OF KILMABNOCK, ON THE PUBLICATION OF HIS 
ESSAYS. 1 " 5 

Oh Goudle ! terror of the Whigs, 
Dread of black coats and rev'rend wigs, 
Sour Bigotry, on her last legs, 

Girnin', looks back, 
Wishin' the ten Egyptian plagues 

"Wad seize you quick. 

Poor gapin', glowrin' Superstition, 
Waes me ! she's in a sad condition :- 
Fie ! bring Black Jock, her state physician, 

To see her water; 
Alas! there's ground o' great suspicion 

She'll ne'er get better. 
Auld Orthodoxy lang did grapple, 
But now she's got an unco ripple ; 
Haste, gie her name up i' the chapel, 

Nigh unto death; 
See, how she fetches at the thrapple, 

And gasps for breath ! 
Enthusiasm's past redemption, 
Gane in a galloidna- consumption. 
Not a' the quacks, wi' a' their gumption, 

Will ever mend her. 
Her feeble pulse gles strong presumption, 
Death soon will end her. 
'Tis you and Taylori'6 are the chief, 
Wha are to blame for this mischief, 
But gin. the Lord's ain fouk gat leave, 

A toom tar-barrel 
And twa rad peats wad send relief, 

And end the quarrel. 



HOLY WILLIE'S PEAYEE.K? 

Oh thou, wha in the heavens dost dwell, 
Wha, as it pleases best thysel', 
Sends aiie to heaven, and ten to hell, 

A' for thy glory. 
And no for ouy griid or ill 

They've done afore thee ! 
I bless and praise thy matchless might, 
When thousands thou hast left in night, 
That I am here afore thy sight, 

Fur gifts 'and grace, 
A burnin' and a shinin' light 

To a' this place. 
What was I. or mv generation, 
That I should get'sic exaltation, 
I wha deserve sic just damnation, 

For broken laws, 
Five thousand years 'fore my creation, 

Thro' Adam's cause! 
When frae my mithcr's womb I fell, 
Thou might hae plunged me in hell, 
To gnash my gums, to weep and wail, 

In burning lake, 
Where damned Devils roar and yell, 

Chain'd to a stake. 
Yet I am here a chosen sample, 
To show thy grace is great and ample; 
I'm here a pillar in thy temple, 

Strong as a rock, 
A guide, a buckler, and example 

To a' thy flock. 

O Lord ! thou kens what zeal I bear, 
When drinkers drink, and swearers swear, 
Andsingin' there, and dancin' here, 

Wi' great and sma', 
For I am keepit by thy fear, 

Free frae them a'. 
But vet O Lord ! confess I must, 
At times I'm fash d wi' fleshy lust. 
And sometimes too, wi' warldly trust, 

Vile self gets in ; 
But thou remembers we are dust, 

DehT'd in sin. 

O Lord! yestreen, thou kens, wi' Meg— 

Thy pardon I sincerely beg. 

Oh! may't ne'er be a'livin' piague, 

To mv dishonour, 
And I'll ne'er lift a lawless leg 
Again upon her. 
Besides, I further maun avow, 
Wi' Leezie's lass, three times. I trow; 
But, Lord! that Friday Iwas'fou, 

When I came near her, 
Or else, thou kens, thy servant true 

Wad ne'er hae steer'd her. 
Maybe thou lets't this fleshly thorn, 
Beset thy servant e'en and morn, 
Lest he owre high and proud should turn, 

'Cause he's sae gifted; 
If sae, thy han' maun e'en be borne, 

Until thou lift it- 
Lord ! bless thy chosen in this place, 
For here thou hast a chosen race : 
But God confound their stubborn face, 

And blast their name, 
Wha bring thy elders to disgrace 

Aiid public shame. 

Lord ! mind Gaw'n Hamilton's deserts, 
He drinks, and swears, and plays at cartes, 
Yet has sae mony takin' arts, 

Wi' grat and sma , 
Frae God's ain priests the people's heart3 

He steals awa'. 

And when we chasten'd him therefore, 
Thou kens how he bred sic a splore, 



As set the w.iil.l m a roajr 

()" laughin' at ns;— 
Curse tlu.u liis basket and his store, 

Kail and potatoes. 

Lord : hear my earnest erv and pray'r, 

Against the presbyt'ry of Ayr; 

Thy strong right hand. Lord", niak it hare 

Upo' their heads, 
Lord! weigh it down, and dinna spare, 

For their misdeeds. 
O Lord my God ! that glib-tongu'd Aiken 
My very heart and saul are qiiakin', 
To think how we stood groanin', shakin' 

And swat wi' dread. 
While he wi' hingin lips and snakin', 

Held up his Jiead. 
Lord! in tlie day of vengeance try him, 
Lord ! visit them wha did employ him. 
And pass not in thy mercy by 'em, 

Nor hear their pray'r : 
But for thy people's sake destroy 'em, 

And dinna spare. 
Hut, Lord ! remember me and mine, 
Wi' mercies temp'ral and divine, 
That I for gear and grace may shine, 

Excell'd by nane, 
And a' the glory shall be thine. 

Amen: Amen! 



EPITAPH ON HOLY WILLIE. 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 

I 



lint let the kirk-folk ring their bells, 
Let's sing about our noble sel's; 

Wc'cl cry nae jauds frae heathen hills 

To help, or roose us. 
But browsh-r wives and whiskey stills, 

They are the Muses. 
Your friendship. Sir. I winna quat it, 
And if ye niak objections at it. 
Then ban' in nievc some day we'll knot it, 

And witness take. 
And when wi' usqnebac we've wat it, 

It winna break. 

But if the beast and branks be spar'd 
Till kyc be gaun without the herd, 
And a' the vittel in the yard, 

And theekit right, 
I mean your ingle-side to guard 

Ae winter night. 
Then muse-inspiring' aqua-vitas 
Shall make us baith sac blytheand witty, 
Till ye forget ye're auld and gatty, 

And be as canty 
As ye were nine year less than thretty, 

Sweet ane and twenty. 

But stooks are cowpit wi' the blast, 
And now the sin keeks in the west, 
Then I maun rin amang the rest 

And quat my chanter; 
Sae I subscribe myself in baste 

Yours Bab the Banter. 



Stop ! there he is, as sure's a gun, 

Poor, silly body, sec him ; 
Nae wonder he's as Mack's the grim', 

Observe wha's standing wi" him. 
Your brunstane devilship, I see, 

Has got him there before ye; 
But baud your nine-tail cat a wee, 

Till ance you've beard my story. 
Y'our pity I will not implore, 

For pity ye liae nane: 
Justice, alas : has gi'en him o'er, 

And Mercy's day is gaen. 

But bear me, sir, deil as ye are, 
Look something to your credit ; 

A coof like him wad stain your name, 
If it were kent ye did it. 

THIRD EPISTLE TO JOHN LAPRAIK.l^ 
September 13, 178.3. 
Gum speed and furder to you, Johnny, 
Guid health, hale ban's and weather bonny; 
Now when ye're nickan down fu' canny 

The staff o' bread, 
May ye ne'er want a stonp o' bran'y 

To clear your head. 
May Boreas never thresh your rigs, 
Nor kkk your rickles aff their legs, 
Scndim the stuff o'er muirs and haggs 

Like drivin' wrack ; 



I'm bizzie too, and skelpin' at it, 

But bitter, daudin' showers bae wat it 

Sae my auld stumpie pen I gat it 

Wi' mnckle wark. 
And took mv jokteleg and whatt it, 

Like ony dark. 
It's now twa month that I'm your debtor, 
For your braw, nameless, dateless letter, 
Abusin' me for harsh ill nature 

On holy men, 
While deil a hair yoursel' ye're better, 

But mair profane. 



EPISTLE TO THE BEY. JOHN M'MATH 179 

September 17, 1785. 
WniLE at the stook the shearers cow'r, 
To shun the bitter blaudin' sIiowt, 

Or in gulravage rinnin' scow'r 

To pass the time, 
To you I dedicate the hour 

In idle rhyme. 

My musie, tir'd wi' mony a sonnet 

On gown, and ban', and douse black bonnet, 

Is grown right eerie now she's done it, 

Lest they should blame her, 
And rouse their holy thunder on it, 

Andanathem her. 

I own 'twas rash, and rather hardy, 
That I, a simple, countra bardie, 
Shou'd meddle wi' a pack sae sturdy, 

Wha, if they ken me, 
Can easy, wi' a single wordie, 

Loose hell upon me. 
But I gae mad at their grimaces, 
Their sighin", cantin', grace-proud faces, 
Their three-mile prayers, and hauf-mile graces. 

Their raxin' conscience, 
Whase greed, revenge, and pride disgraces, 

Waur not their nonsense. 



The] 



s Gawn'st 



: waur than a beast, 
Wha has mair honour in his breast 
Than mony scores as guid's the priest 

Wha sae abus't him, 
And may a bard no crack his jest 

What way they're used him? 



And shall bis fame and honour bleed 
By worthless skellums, 
And not a Muse erect her head 

To cowe the blellums ? 
Oh, Pope, had I thy satire's darts 
To gie the rascals their deserts. 
| I'd rip their rotten, hollow hearts, 

And tell aloud, 
I Their jugglin'. hocus-pocus arts 
To cheat the crowd. 



WILLIE CHALMERS. 



pod knows, I'm no the thing 1 shou'd be, 
Nor am I even the thing I cou'd be, 
But twe nty times 1 rather wou'd be 

An atheist clean, 
Than under gospel colours hid be, 

Just for a screen. 

An honest man may like a glass, 
An honest man may like a lass, 
But mean reronge, and malice fause, 

He'll still disdain, 
And then cry zeal for gospel laws, 

Like some we ken. 

They take religion in their mouth ; 
They talk o' mercy, grace, and truth. 
For what?— to gie their malice skouth 

On some puir wight, 
And hunt him down, o'er right and ruth, 

To ruin straight. 

All hail, Religion ! maid divine: 
Pardon a Muse sae mean as mine, 
Who in her rough imperfect line, 

Thus daurs to name thee: 
To stigmatise false friends o' thine 

Can ne'er defame thee. 

Tho' blotch't and foul wi' mony a stain, 

And far unworthy of thy train, 

"With trembling voice I tune my strain, 

To join with those 
Who boldly daurthy cause maintain, 

In spite o' foes: 
In spite o crowds, in spite o' mobs, 
In spite o' undermining jobs, 
In spite o' dark banditti stabs 

At worth and merit. 
By scoundrels, even wi' holy robes, 

But hellish spirit. 

Oh Ayr ! my dear, my native ground, 
Within thy presbyterial bound 
A candid, lib'ral band is found 

Of public teachers, 
As men, as Christians too, renown'd. 

And manly preachers. 

Sir, in that circle you are nam'd : 
Sir, in that circle 'you are fam'd ; 
And some, by whom your doctrine's blam'd, 

(Which gies you honour), 
Ev'n Sir by them your heart's csteem'd, 

And winning manner. 

Pardon this freedom I have ta'en, 
And if impertinent I've been, 
Impute it not. good Sir, in ane 

Whase heart ne'er wrang'd ye, 
But to his utmost would befriend 

Ought that belang'd ye. 



A NOTE TO GAVIN HAMILTON, ESQ., 

MAUCHLIXE. 

(RECOMMENDING A BOY.) 

Mossgtel, May 0, 1780. 
I hold it, Sir, my bounden duty, 
To warn you how that Master Tootie, 

Alias, Laird M'Gann, 
Was here to hire yon lad away 
'Bout whom ye sp'ak the tither daj', 

And wad hae don't aff nan' : 
But lest he learn the callan tricks, 

As, faith, I muckle doubt him, 
Like serapin' out auld Crummie's nicksisi 
And tellin' lies about them: 
As lieve, then, I'd have, then. 

Your clerkship be should sair, 
If sae be, ye may be 
Not fitted other where. 



gh. 



nd rough, 



The boy might learn to swear; 
But then wi' you he'll be sae taught, 
An' get sic fair example straught, 

I have nae only fear. 
Ye'll catechise him every quirk, 

And shore him weel wi' hell : 

And gar him follow to the kirk— 

—Aye when ye gang yoursel. 

If ye, then, maun be, then 

Frac name this comin' Friday; 
Then please, Sir, to lea"e, Sir, 
The orders wi' your lady. 
My word of honour I hae gien, 
In Paisley John's, that nigiit at e'en, 

To meet the warld's worn ; 
To try to get the twa to grec, 
And name the airiest and the fee, 

In legal mode and form : 
I ken he weel a snick can craw, 
When simple bodies let him ; 
And if a Devil be at a'. 
I faith he's sure to get him. 
To phrase you, and praise you, 
Ye ken your Laureat scorns ; 
The pray'r still, you share still, 
Of grateful Minstrel Burks. 



WILLIE CHALMERS.1S3 

Wf braw new branks in mickle pride, 

And eke a braw new brechan, 
My I'egasus I'm got astride, 

And up Parnassus pechin ; 
Whiles owrc a bush, wi' downward crush, 

The doited beastie stammers ; 
Then up he gets, and off he sets 

For sake o' Willie Chalmers. 
I doubt na, lass, that weel kenn'd name 

May cost a pair o' blushes,; 
I am nae stranger to your fame, 

Nor his warm urged wishes. 
Your bonnie face, sae mild and sweet 

His honest heart enamours, 
And faith, ye'll no be lost a whit, 

Tho' waired on Willie Chalmers. 

Auld truth hersel' might swear ye're fair, 

And honour safely back her, 
And modesty assume your air, 

And ne'er a ane misiak' her : 
And sic twa love inspiring e'en 

Might fire even holy palmers; 
Nae wonder, then, they've fatal been 

To honest Willie Chalmers. 

I doubtna fortune may you shore 

Some mim-mou'd pouther'd priestie, 
Fu' lifted up wi' Hebrew lore, 

And hand upon his breastie : 
But oh ! what signifies to you 

His- lexicons and grammars : 
The feeling heart's the royal blue. 

And that's wi' Willie Chalmers 

Some gapin' glowrin' countra laird, 

May warsle for your favour ; 
May claw his lug/and straik his beard, 

And hoast up some palaver. 
My bonnie maid, before ye wed 

Sic clumsy-witted hammers, 
Seek Heaven for help, and barefit skelp, 

Aiva' wi' Willie Chalmers. 

Forgive the Bard ! my fond regard 

For ane that shares my bosom, 
Inspires my Muse to gie'm his dues, 

For deil a hair I roose him. 
May powers aboon unite you soon, 

And fructify your amours. 
And every year come, in mair dear 

To yon. (i!)il Willie < 'IkiIiixt- 



$4 BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 

LINES WRITTEN ON A LANK NOTE.18 



Wae worth thy power, tliou cursed leaf. 

Fell source o' a' my woe and grief ! 

For lack o' thee I've lost my lass, 

For lack o' thee I scrimp my glass. 

1 sec the children of affliction 

Unaided, through thy cursed restriction. 

I've seen the oppressor's cruel smile 

Amid his hapless victim's spoil, 

And, for thy potence, vainly wish'd 

To crush the villain in the dust. 

For lack o' thee I leave this much loved shore, 

Never, perhaps, to greet old Scotland more. 

It. B-Kyle. 



TO A KISS. 

Humid seal of soft affections, 

Tend'rcst pledge of future bliss, 
Dearest tie of young connections, 

Love's first snow-drop, virgin kiss. 
Speaking silence, dumb confession, 

Passion's birth, and infants' play, 
Dove-like fondness, chaste concession, 

Glowing dawn of brighter day. 
Sorrowing joy, adieu's last action, 

When ling'ring lips no more must join ; 
What works can ever speak affection, 

So thrilling and sincere as thine! 



Accept the gift a friend sincere 

Wad on thy worth be pressin' ; 
Remembrance oft may start a tear, 
But. oh ! that tenderness forbear, 
Though 'twad my sorrows lessen. 

Mr 'morning raise sac clear and fair, 

I thought sair storms wad never 
Bedew the scene; but grief and care 
In wildest fury hae made bare 
My peace, my hope, for ever! 

You think I'm glad ; oh, I pay weel, 

For a' the joy I borrow, 
In solitude— then, then I feel 
I canna to mysel' conceal 

My deeply ranklin' sorrow. 
Farewell! within thy bosom free 

A sigh may whiles awaken; 
A tear may wet thy laughin' ec, 
For Scotia's son— ance gay like thee— 

JSow hopeless, comfortless, forsaken ! 



TOM R. M'A I) A M, 



OF CRAS 
ANSWER TO AN OJiL 
E COMMENCEMENT < 



;en-gillan. 



TEK HE SENT IN 
POETIC CAREER. 



J'lio' l>v his banosiw who in a tub 
Match'd Macedonian Sandy! 

)n my ain legs thro' din and dub, 
I independent stand aye. 



> guid, warm kail, 

ear me ; 



o kiss the breath 



Heaven spai e yo 

O' many flow'ry simmers : 
And bless your bonnie lasses baith— 

I'm tauld they're lo'esome kimmers ! 

And God bless young Dunaskin's laird, 

The blossom of our gentry ! 
And may he wear an anld man's beard, 

A credit to his country ! 



This wot ye all whom it concerns, 
I, Rhymer Robin, alias Burns, 

October twenty-third. 
A ne'er-to-be-forgotten day. 



I dinner' d wi' a Lord. 



I've been at drucken writers' feasts, 
Nay, been bitch-fou 'mang godly priests, 

Wi' rev'rence be it spoken ; 
I've ev'n join'd the honour'd jorum, 
When mighty squireships of the quorum. 

Their hydra drouth did sloken. 

But wi' a Lord '—stand out my shin ! 
A Lord— a Peer— an Earl's son! 

Up higher yet my bonnet ! 
And sic a Lord !— lang Scotch ells twa, 
Our Peerage he o'erlooks them a', 

"As I look o'er my sonnet. 
But. on, for Hogarth's magic pow'r ! 
To show Sir Bardie's willyart glow'r. 

And how he stard and stammer'd, 
When goavan, as if led wi' branks. 
And stumpin" on his ploughman shanks. 

He in the parlour hammer'd. 

I sidling shelter'd in a nook, 
And at his Lordship steal't a look, 

Like some potcntous omen : 
Except good sense and social glee, 
And (what surprised me) modesty, 

1 markit nought uncommon. 
I watch'd the symptons o' the Great, 
The gentle pride, the lordly state. 

The arrogant assuming; 
The flent a pride, nae pride had lie, 
Nor sauce, nor state, that I could see, 

Mair than an honest ploughman. 
Then from his Lordship I shall learn, 
Henceforth to meet with unconcern 

One rank as weel's another: 
Nae honest worthy man need care 
To meet with noble, youthful Daer, 

For he but meets a brother. 

EPISTLE TO MAJOR LOGAN.iss 
Hail, thairm-inspiring', rattlin' Willie! 
Though fortune's road lie rough and hilly 
To every riddlin, " 



We lie v 

But take it like the u 

Proud o 

When idly goavan w 



To cheer you through i 
0' this vil 

Until you on a cummo< 
A grey lu 



• heed. 



.'dull 



vour fiddle! 
id diddle, 
ary widdle 



Come wealth, come poortith. late or soon 
Heaven send your heart-strings are in tun* 
And S'-iv.v.- vour ti-m.ner-pins aboon 

A fifth or mair. 
The inelaiicliolicus, lazy croon 

O' cankrie care ! 
May still your life froin day to day 
Nae 'dente largo'' in the play, 
But " allegretto forte" gay 

Harmonious flow : 
A sweeping, kindling, bauld strathspey-- 

Encore : Bravo ! 
A blessing on the cheery gang 
Wha dearly like a jig or fang. 



And 



it'er thi 



But as the clc 



Liar.' 



id rule, 



Are wise or fooi! 
led curse keep hard in chase 



My hand- 

The liariiy, hoodoek. purse-proud race. 
Wha count on poortith as disgrace- 
Their tuneless hearts 
May fireside di-eords jar a base 



But. come 
I th' ifhei 



Wc, < 



y.'U.r hand, my careless hrithcr, 
vai'l", if there's anithcr— 
sore is, I've little swither 
About thi 



vfOl 



Is 



all. 



irhor: 



We've fan'.:- and fail in. gs— granted clearly; 
We're frail, backsliding mortals merely. 
Eve's bonnie squad, priests wytc them sheerly 

For oiii- errand fa' : 
But still, but still. I like them dearly— 

God bless them a' ! 
Oehon ! for poor Castalian drinkers, 
"When they fail fur." o' earthly j inkers! 
The witching, curs'd delicious blinkers 

Ilae put me hyte. 
And gart me weet my waukrife winkers 

WF giriiin' spite. 
But by yon moon !— and that's high swearin'— 
And every stai vrithin my hearin' ! 
And by her e'en wha was a dear ane ! 

I'll ne'er forget! 
1 hope to gie the jauds a clearin' 

In fair play yet. 
My loss I mourn, but not repent it, 
I'll seek mv vmrsie whare I tint if, 
Ance to the Indies I were wonted, 

Some cantrip hour, 
By some sweet elf I'll vet be dinted, 

Then viveFamour! 
Faites mes bais^mams respectueuses, 
To sentimental sister Susie, 
And honest Lucky ; no to roose you, 

Ye may be proud, 
That sic a couple Fate allows ye 

To grace your blood. 
Nae mair at present can I measure, 
And, troth, my rhymin' ware's nae treasure; 
But when in Ayr, some half-hour's leisure, 

Be't light, be't dark, 
Sir Bard will do himself the pleasure 

To call at Park. 
Messgiel, Sgth October, 1788. Eobert Bcens. 

LAMENT. 

WRITTEN WHEN THE POET WAS ABOUT TO LEAVE 
SCOTLAND. 

O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the lone mor.n 



VEESEs. 85 

Ye foam-crested billows, allow we to wail, 
Ere ye toss me afar from my lov'd native 
shore ; 
Where the flower which bloom' d sweetest in 
Coda's green vale. 
The pride of my bosom, my Mary's no more ! 

No more by the banks of the streamlet we'll 
wander, 
And smile at the moon's rippled face in the 
wave ; 
No more shall my arm cling with fondness 
around her, 
For the dew-drops of morning fall cold on her 
grave. 

No more shall the soft thrill of love warm my 
breast, 
I haste with the storm to a far distant shore ; 
Were unknown, unlamented, my ashes shall 
rest, 
And joy shall revisit my bosom no more. 



THE FAREWELL. 

: "The valiant, in himself, what can he suffer ? 
Or what does he regard his single woes? 
But when alas! he multiplies himself, 
To dearer selves, to the lov'd tender fair, 

i To those whose bliss, whose being hang upon 

j him, • 

i To helpless children!— then, oh then! he feels 

I The point of misery fest 'ring in his heart, 

j And weakly weeps his fortune like a coward. 

I Such, such am I! undone!" 

Thomson's Edward and Eleanora. 

Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains, 
Far dearer than the torrid plains 

Where rich ananas blow ! 
Farewell, a mother's blessing dear! 
A brother's sigh! a sister's tear! 

My Jean's heart-rending throe ! 
Farewell, my Bess! tho thou'rt bereft 

Of mv parental care ; 
A faithful brother I have left, 

My part in him thou'lt share ! 
Adieu, too. to you too, 
My Smith, my bosom frien' ; 



When kindly you mind n 

then befriend my Jean ! 



Oh then t 



Win 



ying. 



of winter incessantly 

ing my heart while intently sur- 

east of the 



What woes 
veyin<_. 
The storm's gloomv path on the 



What bursting anguish tears my heart ! 
From thee, my Jeany, must I part? 
Thou, weeping, answ'rest 4i No !" 
Alas! misfortune stares my face, 
And points to ruin and disgrace, 

I for thy sake must go ! 
Thee, Hamilton, and Aiken dear, 

A grateful, warm adieu! 
I, with a much indebted tear, 
Shall still remember you ! 
All-hail then, the gale then, 

Wafts me from thee, dear shore! 
It rustles, and whistles— 
I'll never see thee more ! 



written under the portrait of fergusson, 
the poet, in a copy of that author's wore?, 
presented to a young lady in edinburgh. 

MARCH 19, 1787. 

Curse on ungrateful man. that can be pleas'd, 

And yet can starve the author of the pleasure ! 

() thou, my elder brother in misfortune, 

By far my elder brother in the muses, 

With tears I pity thy unhappy fate ! 

Why is the bard nnpitied by the world, 

Yet has so keen a relish of its pleasures ? 



80 BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 

PROLOGUE, 

SPOKEN BY MR. WOODS ON HIS BENEFIT NIGHT. 

Monday, lGlh April, 1787.189 
When by a generous Public's kind acclaim. 
I hat dearest need is granted-honest fame: 
A\ lieu here your favour is the actor's lot 
Nor even the man in private life forgot • 
u hat breast so dead to heav'nlv Virtue's "low 
Put heaves impassioifd with the grateful Throe ' 

Poor is the task to please a barl/rous throii" 
It needs no Siddons' powers in Southern's son"- 
But here an ancient nation fam'd afar ' 

For genius, learning high, as great in war- 
Hail, Caledonia, name for ever dear ' 
Before whose sons I'm honour' d to appear' 
Where every science— every nobler art— 
That can inform the mind, or mend the heart, 
Is known ; as grateful nations oft have found 
Far as the rude barbarian marks the bound 
Philosophy, no idle pedant dream, 
Here holds her search by heaven-taught Rea- 
son's beam ; 
Here History painis with elegance and force, 
the tide of Empire's fluctuating course ; 
Here Douglas forms wild Shakespeare into plan. 
And Harley loo rouses all the god in man, 
When well-form d taste and sparkling wit unite 
\V ith manly lore, or female beauty bright 
(Beauty, where faultless symmetry and grace 
Can only charm us in the second place), 
Witness ray heart, how oft with panting fear 
As on this night, I've met these judges here ' 
lint still the hope experience taught to live, ' 
Equal to judge— you're candid to forgive. 
No hundred-headed Riot here we meet, 
\\ ith Decency and Law beneath his feet ; 
Nor rnsoleiice assumes fair Freedom's name • 
Like Caledonians, you applaud or blame. 



svhose empire-gibing 
H:XS 2ndt e11 strecn,t t0 shield tne lionour'd 

Strong may she glow with all her ancient fire ! 
May every s,,u be worthy of his sire ! 
J- inn may she rise with generous disdain 
C\-n yr ?r nny " s ' or tlirer Censure's chain! 
Mill self-dependent in her native shore, 
'.'■', i ."\ ay 8 ,' ie ,jmvi! ^' im Bulger's loudest roar, 
nil fate the curtain drop on words to be no 



EPISTLE TO WILLIAM CREECH.m 
Auld chuckie Reekie's 192 sair distrest 
Down droops her ancc weel-burnish'd crest, 
Nae joy her bonnie buskit nest, 

Can yield ava'. 
Her darling bird that she lo'es best- 
Willie's awa' ! 
Oh. Willie was a witty wight, 
And had o' tilings an 'unco slight ; 
Auld Reekie ave he keepit tight, 
And trig and braw: 
P. nt now they'll busk her like a fright- 
Willie's awa' ! 
The stiffest o' them a' he bow'd ; 
The bauldest o' them a' he cow'd • 
They durst nae mair than he allow'd, 

That was a law: 
We've lost a birkie weel worth gowd— 

Willie's awa'! 
Now gawkies, tawpies, gowks, and fools, 
I'rae colleges and boarding-schools. 
May sprout like simmer puddock-stools, 

In glen or shaw : 
He wha could brush them down to mools, 

Willie's awa' ! 
The brethren o' the Commerce Chanmeri93 
May mourn their loss wi' dolefu' clamour; 



He was a dictionar' and grammar 

Among them a' ; 

I fear they'll now mak mony a stammer- 
Willie's awa' ! 

Nae mair we see his levee door 

Philosophers and poets pour. 

And toothy critics by the score, 
In bloody raw! 

The adjutant o' a' the core- 
Willie's awa' ! 

Now worthy Gregory's Latin face, 

lytler's and Greenfield's modest grace ; 

Mackenzie, Stewart, sic a brace 
As Rome ne'er saw ; 

They a' maun meet some ither place- 
Willie's awa' ! 

Poor Burns— e'en Scotch drink canna quicken, 
He elieeps like some bewilder'd chicken, 
Scar d frae its minnie and the cleckin' 

By hoodie-craw ! 
Grief's gien his heart an unco kickin'— 

Willie's awa' ! 
Xow ev'ry sour-mou'e girnin' blellum — 
And ( 'alvin's folk, are fit to fell him • 
And self-conceited critic skellum 

His quill may draw ; 
He wha could brawlie ward their blellum, 

Willie's awa' ! 
Up wimpling stately Tweed I've sped, 
And Eden scenes on crystal Jed, 
And Ettrick banks now roaring red, 

While tempests blaw: 
But every joy and pleasure's fled— 

A\ illie's awa' ! 

May I he slander's common speech ; 
A text for infamy to preach : 
And lastly, stree'k it out to bleach 

In winter snaw : 
When I forget thee, Willie Creech, 

Tho' far awa' ! 
May never wicked fortune touzle him ! 
May never wicked men bamboozle him! 
Until a pow as auld's Methusalem 

He canty claw ! 
Then to the blessed New Jerusalem 

Fleet Aving awa'! 

THE HERMIT. 

I WRITTEN on a marble sideboard, in the her- 
mitage belonging to the duke of athole, 
in the wood of aberfeldt. 
: Whoe'er thou art, these lines now reading, 
Think not, though from the world receding, 
: I joy my lonely days to lead in 
j This desert drear ; 

■ That fell remorse a conscience bleeding 

Hath led me here. 
Xo thought of guilt my bosoms sours ; 
Free-will'd I fled from courtly bowers ; 
1 For well I saw in halls and towers 

That lust and pride, 
The arch-fiend's dearest, darkest powers, 
In state preside. 

I I saw mankind with vice encrusted; 
I saw that honour's sword was rusted: 
That, few for aught but folly lusted; 
j That he was still deceiv'd who trusted 

To love or friend ; 
I And hither came, with men disgusted, 

My life to end. 
I In this lone cave, in garments lowly, 

ii Alike a foe to noisy folly, 
And brow-bent gloomy 'melancholy, 
I wear away 
My life, and in my office holy 
Consume the day. 



PTSTLE TO II 

3 arc blowing-, 



UGH PARKER. 



This rock mv shield; when st 

Tlie limpid streamlet yonder 1: 
.Supplying drink, the earth bestowing 

My simple food ; 
But few enjoy the calm I know in 

This desert Avood. 

Content and comfort bless me more in 

This grot, than e'er I felt before in 

A palace— and with thoughts still soaring 

To God on high, 
Each night and morn with voice imploring, 

This wish I sigh. 

" Let me. oh Lord! from life retire, 
Unknown each guilty worldly lire, 
Remorse's throb, or loose desire ; 

And when I die, 
Let me in this belief expire- 
To God I fly." 

.Stranger, it" full of youth and riot, 
And yet no grief has marr'd thy quiet, 
Thou haply throw'st a scornful eye at 

The hermit's prayer— 
But if thou hast good cause to' sigh at 

Thy fault or care; 

If thou hast known false love's vexation, 
Or hast been exiled from thv nation, 
Or guilt affrights thy contemplation, 

And makes thee pine. 
Oh! how must thou lament thy station, 

And envy mine ! 



ELEGY OX THE DEATH OF LORD PRE- 
SIDENT DUNDAS.19* 

Lone on the bieaky hills the straying flocks. 
.Shun the fierce storms among the sheltering 

rocks ; 
Down from the rivulets, red with dashing rains, 
The gat h' ring floods burst o'er the distant plains; 
Beni'ath the blasts the leafless forests groan ; 



The hollow caves retu 



sullen moan. 



Ye hills, ye plains, ye forests, and ye caves, 
Ye howling winds, and wintry swelling waves! 
Unheard, unseen, by human "ear or eye, 
Sad, to your sympathetic scenes I fly ; 
Where to the whittling blast and waters" roar, 
Bale Scotia's recent wound I mav deplore. 
Oh heavy loss, thy country ill could bear ! 
A loss these evil days can ne'er repair: 
Justice, the high vicegerent of her God. 
Her doubtful balance ev'd. and swav'd her rod; 
Hearing the tidings of the fatal blow 
She sank, abandon'd to the wildest woe. 
Wrongs, injuries, from many a darksome den, 
Now gay in hope explores the paths of men ; 
See! from his cavern grim Oppression rise, 
And throw on Poverty his cruel eves: 
Keen on the helpless victim see lnm flv, 
And stifle, dark, the feeble-bursting cry. 

Mark ruffian Violence, distained with crimes, 
Rousing elate in these degenerate times; 
View unsuspecting Innocence a prey, 
As guileful fraud points out the erring wav; 
While subtle Litigation's pliant tongue 
The life-blood equal sucks of lli-ht and Wrong: 
Hark, injur'd Want recounts th unlisten'd tale, 
And much-wrong' d Mis'ry pours th' unpitied 
wail ! 

Ye dark waste hills, and brown unsightly plains, 
To you I sing my grief-inspired strains: 
Ye tempests, rage ! ye turbid torrents, roll ! 
Y'e suit the joyless tenor of mv soul. 
Life's social haunts and pleasures I resign, 
lie .nameless wilds and lonelv wanderings mine. 
To mourn the woes my country must endure. 
That would degenerate ages cannot cure. 



A !■ 



CETCLt. 



A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight, 195 

And still his precious self his dear delight : 

Who loves his own -mart shadow in the streets, 

Better than e'er the fairest she he meets. - 

A man of fashion, too. he made his tour, 

Learn'd rive la bagatelle, et viue V amour. 

So travelled monkies their grimace improve, 

Polish their grin, nay, sigh for ladies love. 

Much specious lore, but little understood; 

Veneering oft outshines the solid wood; 

His solid sense by inches you must tell, 

But mete his cunning by the old Scots ell; 

His meddling vanity, a busy fiend 

Still making work his selfish craft must mend. 



AN EXTEMPORE EFFUSION, 

ON BEING APPOINTED TO THE EXCISE. 

Searching anld wives" barrels. 

Och. hoii ! the day ! 
That clart t barm should stain my laurels! 

But— what'Il ye say ? 
These movin' things ca'd wives and weans, 
Wad move the very hearts o' stanes : 



TO C LAB IN DA, 

WITH A PRESENT OF A PAIR OF DRINKING 

GLASSES. 

Fair Empress of the Poet's soul, 

And Queen of Poetesses; 
Clarinda. take this little boon, 

This humble pair of glasses! 

And fill them high with generous juice, 

As generous as your mind ; 
And pledge me in the generous toast— 

"The whole of human kind!" 

11 To those who love us !"— second fill ; 

But not to those whom we love ; 
Lest we love those who love not us !— 

A third—- To thee and me, love !" 



EPISTLE TO HUGH PARKER. li>« 

In this strange land, this uncouth clime, 

A land unknown to prose or rhvme ; 

Where words ne'er crossed the'Muse's heckles, 

Nor limpet in poetic shackles; 

A land that Prose did never view it. 

Except when drunk he stacher'd thro' it; 

Here, ambush'd by the chimla cheek, 

Hid in an atmosphere of reek. 

I hear a weel thrum i' the neuk, 

1 hear it — for in vain I leak. 

The red peat gl -ams, a fiery kernel, 

F.nhitsked by a fog infernal; 

Here for my wonted rhyming raptures, 

I sir ami count my sins and chapters ; 

For life and spunk like it her Christians, 

I'm dwindled down to mere existence, 

Wi' nae converse but Gallowa' bodies. 

Wi" nae-kenn'd face but Jenny Geddes. 

Jenny, my Pegasean pride ! 

Dowi'e she saunters down Nithside, 

And aye a westlin' heuk she throws, 

While tears hap o'er her anld brown nose? 

Was it for this, wi" canny care. 

Thou bure the Bard through many a shire V 

At howes or hillocks never stumeled, 

And late or early never grumbled 'i 

Oh, had I power' like inclination, 

I'd heezethee up a constellation, 

To canter with the Sagitarre, 

Or loup the ecliptic like a bar ! 

Or turn the pole like any arrow; 

Or, when anld Phoebus bids good morrow. 

Down the zodiac urge the race. 

And cast dirt on his godship's face ; 



BURNS' POETICAL \ ■ 



Kor I could lav mv bread and knil, 
llo'd ne'er cast sail npo' thy tail. 

Wi' a" this tare and a' this grief,- 



Biif till we meet and weet our whistle, 
Tak this excuse for nac epistle. 

Robert Burns. 

EFPEMPORE TO CAPTAIN RIDDEL. 
jF GLEXRIDDEL. ON RETURNING A NEWSPAPER.^ 97 

Ellisland, Monday Evening. 
Your news and review, Sir, I've read through 
and thrdugh, Sir, 

With liril' admiring or blaming; 



The papers are ban- 
No murder or rap 


en of home-news or f 
is worth the naming 


oreign 


Oar friends, the re\ 
hewers, 

Arc judges of moi 
But of meet, or nnn 

I'll boldly pronoui 


lowers, those chipp 
tar and stone. Sir: 


ate, 


My goose-quill too i 


ude is to tell all you 


good- 



ness 
Bestowed on vour servant, the Poet : 
Would to Cod I'had on- like a beam of the 
And then all the world, Sir, should knoi 



MY AIN KIND DEARIE, 0! 
Tune— "The Lea-rig.'' 

Wnr.x o'er the lull the eastern star. 

Tells bmrhtin-time is near, mv jo; 
And owsen frae the furrow'd field, 

Return sae dowf and weary O ! 
Down by the burn, where scented birks 

V\'i' dew are hanging clear, my jo, 
I'll meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ainkind dearie 0! 
In mirkest glen at midnight hour, 

I'd rove and ne'er be eerie O ! 
If throngh that glen I gaed to thee, 

Mv ain kind dearie O ! 
Altho" the night were ne'er sae wild, 

And I were ne'er sae weary O ! 
I'd meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie O! 
The hunter lo'es the morning sun 

To rouse the mountain deer, my joe ; 
At noon the fisher seeks the glen, 

Along the burn to steer, my joe; 
Oic me the hour o' gloamin' giw 

It males my heart -:u- ch.-ery •.) I 
To meet thee on the lea-rig, 

My ain kind dearie ! 

TO MARY. 
Tune— " Ewe-bughts." 

'ill ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 

And li"ave auld Scotia's shore? 
Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary, 
i!i' .Atlantic's roar? 



Wil: 



sweet grows the lime and the orange, 
Andthe a;i:.h' on :!:;■ |>in ■: 

But a' the charms o' the Indies, 
Can never equal tbine. 

1 line sworn by the Heavens to my Mary, 
I ha ■ sworn by the Heavens to be true ; 

And sae may the Heavens forget me, 
When I forget my vow! 



plight nie your faith, mv Marv, 

And plight me vour liiv-whitc hand : 
O plight me your faith, n ; 

Before I leave Scotia's strand. 
We hae plighted our troth, my Mary. 

!n mutual affection to join: 
And eursr be the cause that shall part us 

The hour, and the moment o' time 1 



LETTER TO JAMES TENNANT, 
OF GLENCONNER . 198 

Avlt) comrade dear, and 1: 



iout Glen- 



early dozen'. 

by Johnnie Simsnn, 



To Coram i 
What wive 
But, hark v 
Peruse thei 
For now Fr 
I pray and 
My shins, n 



astis 



Brown, and Boston: 
Till bye and bye. if I baud on, 
I'll crrunt a blouse gospel-groan: 
Already I begin to rry if. 
To cast my e'en im like a pyet, 
When by the gnu she tumbles o'er, 
Flntt'ring and gasping in licr gore : 
Sae shortly you shall sec me bright, 
A burning and a shining light. 

My heart-warm love to g'uid auld Glen 
The ace and wale o' honest men: 
When bending down wi' auld grey hairs, 
Beneath the load of years and cares. 



May He ? 
ldv 



aide liii 



still sup; i 



.re him. 



My 



And Auchenbay, I wish him j 
If he's a parent. la- 
May he be dad. and .Meg the : 

Just rive-and-forty y.-ars rl: •: 
And no forgetting wabster <"u 
I'm told he offers very fairly. 
And. Lord remember singing 
Wi' hale breeks, saxpence, an 
And next mv auld aequaintan 
' fitted to her fane: 



And her 

A good c 



iel v 



stars ha 
i pit 



an honest man : 
id quat my chanter, 
nier, Rob tiik Ranter, 



SECOND EPISTLE TO MR. GRAHAM 
DELIA 

Fair the face of orient day, 



Fair the tints of op'ning rose : 
But fairer still rny Delia dawns. 
More lovely far her beauty shows. 

Sweet the lark's wild warbled lay, 
Sweet the tinkling rill to hear ; 

But, Delia, more delightful still, 
Steal thine accents on mine ear. 

The flower-enamoured busy bee, 
The rosy banquet loves to sip ; 

Sweet the streamlet's limpid lapse 
To the snn-brown'd Arab's lip. 

But, Delia, on thy balmy lips 
Let me, no vagrant inject, rove ! 

Oh, let me steal one liquid kiss, 
For, oh! my soul is parched with love! 

PEG NICHOLSON^ 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 

As ever trod on aim ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

And past the mouth o' Cairn. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
And rode thro' thick and thin ; 

But now she's floating down the Nith, 
And wanting e'en the skin. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 

And ance she bore a priest ; 
But now she's floating down the Nith, 

For Solway fish a feast. 

Peg Nicholson was a good bay mare, 
And the priest he rode her sair, 

And ranch oppressed and bruis'd she was, 
As priest-rid cattle arc. 



TO MY BED. 

Thou bed, in which I fir;t began 
To be that various creature— Man ! 
And when again the Fates decree. 
The place where I must cease to be ; 
When sickness comes, to whom 1 fly, 
To soothe my pain, or close mine eye : 
"When cares surround me, where I weep, 
Or lose them all in balmy sleep ; 
When sore with labour, whom I court. 
And to thy downy breast resort ; 
"Where too, ecstatic joys I find. 
When deigns my Delia to be kind, 
And full of love." in all her charms. 
Thou giv'st the fair one to my arms, 
The centre thou, where grief and pain, 
Disease and rest, alternate reign, 
Oh, since within thy little space, 
So many various scenes take place ; 
Lessons as useful shalt thou teach, 
As sages dictate— churchmen preach; 
And man, convinced by thee alone, 
This great important truth shall own : 
" That thin partitions do divide 
The bounds were good and ill reside ; 
Tha' nought is perfect here below 
But bliss still bordering upon woe."-00 

SECOND EPISFLE TO MR. GRAHAM, 

OF FIXTRY.201 

strife, 



Come then. 

O'er Pegasi 

And 5 



' my life ! 
;-itra fleg, 
y him. 
-(•ears, 



Of princes and their darlings; 
And, bent on winning borough towns, 
Came shaking hands wi' wabster loons, 

And kissing burefit carlins. 
Combustion through our boroughs rode 
Whistling his roaring pack abroad, 

Of mad, unmuzzled lions ; 
As Queensberry buff and blue unfuiTd, 
And Westerha" and Hopetounhurl'd 

To every Whig defiance. 

But Queensberry, cautious, left the war, 
The unnianner'd dust might soil his star, 

Besides, he hated bleeding; 
Bnt left behind him heroes bright, 
Heroes in Cesarean fight 

Or Ciceronian pleading. 
O for a throat like huge Mons-meg,202 
To muster o'er each ardent Whig 

Beneath Drumlanrig's banners : 
Heroes and heroines commix 
All in the field of politics, 

To win immortal honours. 

M'Murdo and his lovely spouse, 

(Th' enamour'd laurels kiss her brows,) 

Led on the laves and graces ; 
She won each gaping burgess' heart, 
While he, all-couquerin.g. play'd his part, 

Among their wives and lasses. 

Craigdarroch led a light-arm'd corps ; 
Tropes, metaphors, and figures pour, 

Like Hecla streaming thunder; 
Glenriddel. skill'd in rusty coins, 
Blew up each Tory's dark designs, 

And bared the treason under. 
In either wing two champions fought, 
Redoubted Staig, who set at nougirt 

The wildest -avage Tory; 
And Welsh, who ne'er yet flinch'd his ground, 
High wav (I his magnum bonuin round 

With Cyclopean fury. 
Miller brought up the artillery ranks, 
The many pounders of the Banks, 

Resistless desolation ; 
While Maxwelton. that baron bold, 
Mid Lawson's port eutrench'd his hold, 

And threateu'd worse damnation. 

To these, ^ 
~ ththes , 

Surpasses my descriving: 
Sim. oirun i extended long and large, 
With furious speed rush'd to the charge, 

Like raging devils driving. 

What verse can sing, what prose narrate, 
The butcher deeds of bloody fate 

Amid this mighty tulzie ? 
Grim Horror grinn'd ; pale Terror roar'd 
As Murther at his thrapple shor'd; 

And hell mixt in the brulzie! 

As Highland crags, by thunder cleft, 
When lightnings "firethe stormy lift, 

Hurl down wi' crashing rattle ; 
As flames amang a hundred woods ; 
As headlong foam a hundred floods — 

Such is the rage of battle. 
The stubborn Tories dare to die ; 
As soon the rooted oaks would fly, 

Before th' approaching fellers; 
The Whigs come on like ocean's roar, 
Wlrr-n all his wintry billows pour 

Against the Buchan Bnllers.203 

Lo, from the shades of Death's deep nigkt, 
Departed Whigs enjoy the fight, 

And think on former darins ! 
The muffled murtherer of Charles204 
The Magna Charta Hag unfurls, 

All deadly gules its bearing. 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Nor wan tine; ghosts of Tory fame ; 
Bold ScrimgeoarZ" 3 follows gallant Gra- 
hame--os 

Auld Covenanters shiver— - 
(Forgive, forgive, mncn-wrong'd Montrose; 
While death and hell engulf'd thy foes, 

Thou liv'st on high for ever !) 

Still o'er the field the combat burns ; 
The Tories, Whigs, give way by turns; 

But fate the word lias spoken— 
For woman's wit, or strength of man, 
v Alas ! can do but what they can— 
\ The Tory ranks are broken ! 

Oh that my e'en were flowing burns ! 
My voice a lioness that mourns 

Her darling cub's undoing! 
That 1 might greet, that I might cry, 
While Tories fall, while. Tories fly, 

And furious Whigs pursuing ! 
What Whig but wails the good Sir James ; 
Dear to his country by the names, 

Friend, Patron, Benefactor'? 
Not Pulteny's wealth can Pulteny save! 
And Hopetoun falls, the generous, brave! 

And Stuart, bold as Hector! 
Thou, Pitt, shall rue this overthrow, 
And Thurlow growl a curse of woe, 

And Melville melt in wailing! 
Now Fox and Sheridan, rejoice ! 
And Burke shall sing, "Oh prince, arise ! 

Thy power is all-prevailing!" 

For your poor friend, the Bard, afar, 
He hears, and only hears the war, 



The robin in the hedge descends, 
And sober chirps securely. 



ADDRESS OF BEELZEBUB. 

TO THE PRESIDENT OF THE HIGHLAND SOCIETY.20 

Long life, my Lord, and health be yours, 
Unscaith'd by hunger'd Highland boors ! 
Lord, grant nae duddie, desperate beggar, 
Wi' dirk, claymore, or rusty trigger, 
May twin auld Scotland o' a life 
She likes— as lambkins like a knife ! 
Faith, you and Applecross were right 
To keep the Highland hounds in sight ; 
I doubt na' they wad bid nae better- 
Than, let them ance out owre the water; 
Then up amangthae lakes and seas 
They'll mak what rules and laws they please! 
Some daring Hancock, or a Franklin, 
May set their Highland blind a-ranklin"; 
Some Washington again may head them, 
Or some Montgomery, fearless, lead them ! 
Till God knows what may be effected 
When by such heads and hearts directed ; 
Poor dunghill sons of dirt and mire, 
May to Patrican rights aspire! 
Nae sage North, now, nor sager Sackville, 
To watch and premier o'er the pack vile ! 
And whare will ye get Howes and Clintons 
To bring them to a right repentance, 
To cowe the rebel generation, 
And save the honour o' the nation ? 

They ! and be d d ! what right hae they 

To meat or sleep, or light o' day 'i 
Far less to riches, pow'r, or freedom, 
But what your lordship likes to gie them! 

But hear, my lord ! Glengarry, hear! 
Your band's owre light on them, I fear; 
Your factors, grieves, trustees, and bailies, 
Icanna sav but tlu'ii do garlics; 
They lay aside a' tender mercies, 
And tirl the hallions to the birses; 
Yet, while they're onlv poind't and herriet, 
They'll keep their stubborn Highland spirit ; 



But smash them! crush them a' to spails! 

And rot the dyvors i' the jails ! 

The young dogs, swinge them to the labour 

Let wark and hunger mak them sober! 

The hizzies, if they're aughtlins fawsont, 

Let them in Drury-lane be lesson'd! 

And if the wives and dirty brats 

Come thiggin' at your doors and yetts, 

Flaffan wi' duds and grey wi' beas', 

Frightin' awa' your deucks and geese, 

(Jet out a horsewhip or a jowler, 

The langest thong, the fiercest growler, 

And gar the tattered gypsies' pack 

Wi' a' their bastards on their back! 

Go on, my Lord ! I lang te meet yon, 
And in my house at hame to greet you ! 
Wi' common lords ye shanna mingle; 
The benmost nenk beside the ingle, 
At my right han' assigned your seat 
'Tween Herod's hip and Polycrate — 
Or if you on your station tarrow, 
Between Ahuagro and Pizarro ; 
A seat, I'm sure, ye're weel deservin't ; 
And till ye come— Your humble servant, 

Beelzebub. 

June 1st, Anno Mundi, 5790. 



LIBERTY— A FRAGMENT. 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among, 
Thee, famed for martial deed and sacred song, 

To thee I turn with swimming eyes! 
Where is that soul of freedom fled? 
Immingled with the mighty dead. 

Beneath the hallow'd turf where Wallace lies ! 
Hear it not, Wallace, in thy bed of death ! 

Ye babbling winds, in silence sweep ! 

Disturb not ye the hero's sleep, 
Nor give the coward secret breath. 

Is this the power in freedom's war, 

That wont to bid the battle rage ? 
Behold that eye which shot immortal hate, 

Crushing the despot's proudest bearing! 
Behold e'en grizzly death's majestic state 

Fl'ftftnnm's miorr»H o-lniw^ n'on Jonf 



When Freedom's 
wearing. 



sacred glance e'en death is 



TO MR. MAXWELL, 

OF TERRA UGHTY, ON HIS BIRTH-DAY. 

Health to the Maxwell's vet'ran chief! 
Health, aye unsour'd by care or grief: 
Inspir'd, I turn Fate's sybil leaf 

This natal morn ; 
I see thy life is stuff o' prief, 

Scarce quite half worn. 
This day thou mete'st threescore eleven, 
And I can tell, that bounteous Heaven 
(The second, sight, ye ken, is given 

To ilka Poet) 
On thee a tack o' seven times seven 

Will yet bestow it. 
If envious buckies view wi' sorrow 
Thy lengthen'd days on this blest morrow, 
May Desolat inn's iang-tecth'd harrow, 

Nine miles an hour. 
Rake them, like Sodom and Gomorrah, 



In bri 



stoim 



But for th 
Baithhon 
My couthi 

Wi' morni 



friends, and tlicv are monv, 
st men and lassies bonnie, 
fortune, kind and cannie, 

In social glee, 
gs biythe and e'enings I'unnv 

Bless them and thee! 



Fareweel, auld Birkie ! Lord be near ye, 
And then the dcil lie daurna steer ye : 
Your friends aye love, your facs aye fear yc; 

For me. shame fa' me, 
If ncar'st my heart 1 dinna wear ye, 

While Bukns they ca' me; 



EPISTLE FROM iESOPUS TO MAKIA. 
THE TREE OF LIBERTY. 



Heaed ye o' the tree o' France, 

I watna what's the name o't ; 
Around it a' the patriots dance, 

Weel Europe kens the fame o*t. 
It stands where ance the Bastile stood, 

A prison built by kings, man, 
When Superstition's hellish brood 

Kept France in leading strings, man, 
Upo' this tree there grows sic fruit, 

It's virtues a' can tell, man ; 
It raises man aboon the brute, 

It maks him ken himsel', man. 
If ance the peasant taste a bite, 

He's greater than a lord, man, 
And wi' the beggar shares a mite 

O' a' he can afford, man. 
This fruit is worth a' Afric's wealth, 

To comfort us 'twas sent, man : 
To gie the sweetest blush o' health, 

And mak us a' content, man. 
It clears the e'en, it cheers the heart, 

Maks high and low guid trends, man ; 
And he wha acts the traitor's part, 

It to perdition sends, man. 
My blessings aye attend the chief, 

Wha pitied Gallia's slaves, man, 
And straw'd a branch, spite o' the deil, 

Frae yon't the western waves, man. 
Fair Virtue water'd it wi' care, 

And now she sees wi' pride, man, 
How weel it buds and blossoms, there, 

Its branches spreading wide, man. 

But vicious folk aye hate to see 

The works o" Virtue thrive, man; 
The courtly vermin's banned the tree, 

And grat to see it thrive, man. 
Kins Louis thought to cut it down. 

When it was unco sma". man; 
For this the watchman cracked his crown, 

Cut aff his head and a', man, 

A wicked crew syne, on a time, 

Did tak a solemn aith, man. 
It ne'er should flourish to its prime, 

1 wat they pledged their faith, man ; 
Awa', they'gaed wi' mock parade 

Like beagles hunting game, man, 
But soon grew weary o' the trade, 

And wished they'd been at name, man. 
For Freedom, standing by the time, 

Her sons did loudly ca", man; 
She sang a song o' liberty, 

Which pleased them ane and a', man. 
By her inspired, the new-born race 

Soon drew the avenging steel, man ; 
The hirelings ran— her foes gied chase, 

And banged the despot weel, man. 
Let Britain boast her hardy oak, 

Her poplar and her pine. man. 
Auld Britain ance could crack her joke, 

And o'er her neighbours shine, man. 
But seek the forest round and round, 

And soon "twill be agreed, man, 
That sic a tree can not be found, 

"Twixt London and the Tweed, man. 
Without this tree, alack this life 

Is but a vale o' woe, man ; 
A scene o" sorrow, mixed wi' strife, 

Nae real joys we know, man. 
We labour soon, we labour late, 

To feed the titled knave, man; 
And a' the comfort we're to get, 

Is that ayont the grave, man. 

Wi' plenty o' sic trees, I trow, 
The warld would live in peace, man; 

The sword would help to mak' a plough. 
The din o' war wad cease, man. 



Like brethren in a common cause, 
We'd on each other smile, man ; 

And equal rights and equal laws 
Wad gladden every isle, man. 

Wae worth the loon wha wadna eat 

Sic halesome, dainty cheer, man. 
I'd gie my shoon frae aff my feet. 

To taste sic fruit, I swear, man. 
Syne let us pray, auld England may 

Sure plant this far-famed tree, man ; 
And blythe we'll sing, and hail the day 

That gave us liberty, man. 

ON GENERAL DUMOURIER. 

A PARODY OX ROBIX ADAIR. 208 

You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier; 

You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier. 

How does Dampiere do? 

Av and Bournonville too? 

Why did they not come along with you, Du- 
mourier i 

I will fight France with yon, Dumourier; 

I will fight France with you. Dumourier 

I will fight France with you ; 

I will take my chance with yon; 

By by soul, I'll have a dance with you Du- 
mourier. 

Then let us fight about, Dumourier; 

Then let us fight about. Dumourier: 

Then let us fight about, 

Till freedom's spark is out, 

Then we'll be damn'd, no doubt— Dumourier. 

EPISTLE FROM iESOPUS TO MARIA.200 
From those drear solitudes and frowsy cells, 
Where infamy with sad repentance dwells; 
Where turnkeys make the jealous portal fast, 
And deal from iron hands the spare repast: 
Where truant 'prentices, yet young in sin, 
Blush at the curious stranger peeping in; 
Where strumpets, relics of the drunken roar, 
Resolve to drink, nay, half to whore no more : 
Where tiny thieves not destin'd yet to swing, 
Beat hemp for others, riper for the string: 
From these dire scenes my wretched lines I 

date, 
To tell Maria her JEsopus' fate. 
"Alas! I feel Lam no actor here!" 
'Tis real hangmen, real scourges bear, 
Prepare, Maria, for a horrid tale, 
Will turn thy very rouge to deadly pale ; 
Will make thy hair, tho' erst from gipsy poll'd, 
By barber woven, and by barber sold, 
Though twisted smooth with Harry's nicest 

care, 
Like hoary bristles to erect and stare. 
The hero of the mimic scene, no more, 
I start in Hamlet, in Othello roar: 
Or haughty chieftain, mid the din of arms. 
In Highland bonnet woo Malvina's charms : 
While sans-cnlottes stoop up the mountain high, 
And steal from me Maria's prying eye. 
Blest Highland bonnet ! oncerny proudest dress, 
Now prouder still. Maria's temp'les press. 
I see her wave thy towering plumes afar. 
And call each coxcomb to the wordy war: 
I sec her face the first of Ireland's sons.-io 
And even out- Irish his Hibernian bronze: 
The crafty colonel-u leaves the tartaned Lines 
For other wars, where he a hero shines: 
The hopeful youth, in Scottish senate bred. 
Who owts a Bushby's heart without the head, 
Comes mid a string of coxcombs to display, 
That rem. vidi. vici, is his way ; 
The shrinking bard adown an alley skulks, 
And dreads a meeting worse than Woolwich 

hulks; 
Though there, his heresies in Church and State 
Might we|l award him Mnir and Palmer's fate : 



BOliNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Si ill she undaunted reels and rattles on, 
Ami dares the miblie like a moonthle sun. 

d Maria's jaunty staler, 



(Wh 



it se; 



renoin, 



Whose s])leen e'en worse than Burns' 

■when 

lie dips in pall unmix" d his eager pen.. 
And pours his vengeance in the burning line, 
Who christen'd thus Maria's lyre divine, 
The idiot strum of vanity bemused, 
And even th" abuse of poesy abused : 
"Who call'd her verse a parish Workhouse, made 
For motley, foundling fancies, stolen or stray 'd?) 
A Workhouse! ah, that sound awakes mv woes, 
And pillows on the thorn my rack'd repo"se! 
In durance vile here must I wake and weep, 
And all my frowsy couch in sorrow steep ! 
That straw where many a rogue has lain of 

yore, 
And vermin d <;ip>ies lirter'd heretofore. 
Why Lonsdale thus, thy wrath on vagrants 

pour ? 
Must earth no rascal save thyself endure? 
Must thou alone in guilt immortal swell, 
And mftke a vast monopoly or hell ? 
Thou know'st the Virtues cannot hate thee 

worse ; 
The Vices also, must they club their curse ? 
Or must no tiny sin to others fall, 
Because thy guilt's supreme enough for all? 
Maria, send me, too thy griefs and cares ; 
In all of thee sure thy iEsopus shares. 
As thou at all mankind the flag unfurls, 
Who on my fair one Satire's vengeance hnrls? 
Who calls thee pert, affected, vain, coquette, 
A wit in folly, and a fool in wit ? 
Who says that fool alone is not thy due, 
And quotes thy treacheries to prove it true ? 
Our force united on thy foes we'll turn, 
And dare the war with all of women born: 
For who can write and speak as thou and I? 
My periods that decyphering defy, 
And thy still matchless tongue that conquers all 

reply. 



THE VOWELS. 

A TALE. 

'TWAS where the birch and sounding thong are 

plied. 
The noisy domicile of pedant pride: 
When- Iguorane-- her dark'niiig vapour throws, 
And Cruelty directs the thick'ning blows; 
Upon a time, Sir A-bc-ce the great, 
Jn all his pedagogic powers elate, 
II is awful chair of state resolves to mount, 
And call the trembling vowels to account. 



First 



nter'd A, a grave, 

! deform'd, dishoiu 
ted head look'd ba< 
;rant from the scou 



nd, solemn 



gilt, 



Reluctant, E stalk'd in: i 



Andknockd the groaning vowel to the ground! 
Tn rueful a/pnrehehsioii entcr'd O, 

The wairmg^in.trel of despairing woe: 
Th' Inquisitor of Spain the most expert. 
Might there have learnt new mysteries of his 



So grim, deform'd, with horrors entering U, 
[lis dearest friend and brother scarcely knew ! 
\s trembling U stood staring all aghast, 
t'he pedant in his left hand clutch'd him fast, 
!n helpless infant's tears he dipp'd his light, 
iaotiz'd him eu, and kick'd him from his sight. 

VEESES TO JOHN RANKINE. 

Oxe dav, as Death, that grusorne carle, 
Was driving to the tither warl' 
A mixtic-maxtie, motley squad, 
And mony a guilt-bespotted lad; 
Black gowns of each denomination, 
And thieves of every rank and station. 
From him that wears the star and garter, 
To him that wintles in a halter: 
Ashamed himsel' to see the wretches, 
He mutters, glowrin' at the bitches, 
" By G— , I'll not be seen bchint them, 
Nor 'mang th' sp'ritual core present them, 
Without, at least, ane honest man, 
To grace this d— d infernal clan." 
By Adamhill a glance he threw, 
'• L— G-d !" quoth he, " I liave it now. 
"There's just the man I want, i' faith !" 
And quickly stoppitEankinc's breath. 



A FAVOURITE 
12 

On, sweet be thy sleep in the land of the grave, 

My dear little angel, for ever ; 
For ever— oh, no ! let not man be a slave, 
.His hopes from existence to sever. 

Though cold be the clay where thou pillow'st thy 
head, 

In the dark silent mansions of sorrow, 
The spring shall return to thy low narrow bed, 

Like the beam of the day star to-morrow. 

The flower stem shall bloom like thy sweet 
seraph form, 
Ere the spoiler had nipt thee in blossom, 
When thou shrunk'st 1'rae the scowl of the loud 
winter storm, 
And nestled thec close to that besom. 
Oh ! still I behold thee, all lovely in death, 

Reclined on the lap of thy mother : 
When the tear trickled bright, when the thott 
stifled breath; 
Told how dear ye were aye to each other. 

My child, thou art gone to the home of thy rest, 

Wliere'suiiei'iiigno longer can harm thee. 
Where the songs of the good, where the hymns 
of the blest, 
Through an endless existence shall charm 
thec. 
While he, thy fond rarcnt, must sighing so- 
journ, 
Through the, dire desert regions, of sorrow, 
O'er the hope and misfortune of being to mourn,- 
And sigh for this life's latest morrow. 



THE RUINED MAID'S LAMENT. 
)h, meikle do I rue, fanse love, 
Or saiiiy do I rue, 

.hat e'er I heard vour flattering tongue, 
That e'er your face I knew. 



Oh. I hac tent mv rosy cheek 

Likewise my waist sac sma 
And 1 hac lost my lightsome I 

That little wist a fa'. 
Now I maun thole the scornf 

()' mony a saucy quean: 
When, gin the truth were a' 1 

Jler life's been warse than i 



IMPROMPTU ON WILLI): 



Squire 
Pretc 



Wi' thinking on my fa*. 
Whene'er I hear my father's foe 

My heart wad burst wi' pain: 
Whene'er 1 meet my mother's e.' 

Ky tears rin down like rain. 
Alas ; sae sweet a tree as lore 

Sic bitter fruit should bear! 
Alas ! that e'er a bonnie face 

Should draw a sauty tear! 



THE DEAN OF THE FACULTY. 

A NEW BALLAD. 213 

Tune— '"The Dragon of Wantley." 

Dire was the hate at old Harlaw, 

That Scot to :' :ot did carry; 
And dire the disc ird Land saw, 

For bea-.Ui-ou--hai.less Mary: 
But Scot with.Scot ne'er so hot, 

< ;;■ were mm-e hi furv seen, Sir, ' 
Than "twixr Hal and Bob for the famous job— 

Who should be Faculty's Dean, Sir. 

This Hal for genius, wit, and lore. 

Among the first was number'd; 
But pious Bob, laid learning- store. 

Commandment tenth remembered. 
Yet simple Bob the victory got, 

And won his heart's desire ; 
Which shows that Heaven can boil the pot, 

Though the devil p in the fire. 

3 Hal besides had in this case 
'retensiens rather brassy, 
For talents to deserve a place 

Are quulirications saucy ; 
So their worships of the -'Faculty," 

Quite sick of merit's rudeness, 
Choose one who should owe it all, d'ye see, 

To their gratis grace and goodness. 

As once on Pisgah purg'd was the sight 

Of a son of CirciimcDion. 
So may be, on this Pisgah height, 

Bob's purblind, mental vision : 
Nay, Bobby's mouth may be open'd yet, 

Till for eloquence you hail him, 
And swear he has the Angel met 

That met the Ass of Balaam. 

In your heretic sins may you live and die. 

Ye heretic Eight-and-thirty, 
But accept, ye sublime majority, 

My congratulations hearty. 
With your Honours and a certain King 

In your servants this is striking, 
The more incapacity they bring 

The more they're to your liking. 

VERSES 

ON THE DESTRUCTION OF THE WOODS NEAR 
DRUMLANEIG, 214 

As on the banks o' wandering Nith, 

Aue smiling simmer-morn I strayed. 
And traced its bonnie howes and haughs, 

Where Unties sang and lambkins play'd : 
I sat me down upon a craig, 

And drank my fill o' fancy's dream, 
When, from the eddying deep below, 

Uprose the genius of the stream. 
Dark, like the frowning rock, his brow, 

And troubled, like his wintry wave, 
And deep, as sighs the boding wind 

Amang ins eaves, the sigh lie gave — 
"And came ye here, my son." he cried, 

• -To wander in my l-.irken shade ? 
To muse some favourite Scottish theme, 

Or sing some favourite Scottish maid V 



••There 


was a time— it's nae Jang syne, 


Ye mi 


jht hae seen me in my pride, 


When a 


my banks sac bravely saw 


Their 


woody -pictures in my 'tide : 


When li 


inging beech and spreading Mm 


Shade 


d by streams sae clear and cool; 


And sta 


tely oaks their twisted arms 


Thre-s 


- broad and dark across the pool 



"When, glinting through the trees, appeared 

The wee white cot aboon the mill, 
And peacefu' rose its ingle reek, 

That slowly curled up the hill. 
But now the cot is bare and canld, 

It's branchy shelter's lost and gane, 
And scarce a stinted birk is left 

To shiver in the blast its lape." 

"Alas!" said I. "what ruefu' chance 
Has twin'd ye o' your stately trees ? 

Has laid your'r.;ckv bosom bare? 
Has stripp'd the 'deeding o' vour braes ? 

Was it the bitter eastern blast, 
That scattered blight in early spring? 

Or was't the wil'fire scorched their bough , 
j Or canker-worm wi' secret sting?" 

I "Nae eastlin' blast," the sprite replied: 
| " It blew na here sae fierce and fell, 

And on my dry and whalesome banks 
Nae canker-worms get leave to dwell : 

Man ! cruel man!" the genius sigh'd— 
I As through the cliffs he sank him down— 
l "The worm that gnaw'd my bonnie trees, 
! That reptile wears a ducal crown." 

ON THE DUKE OF QUEEXSBERRY.2'5 
How shall I sing Drumlanrig's Grace- 
Discarded remnant of a race 

Once great in martial story ? 
His forbears' virtues all contrasted— 
The very name of Dougla ; blasted— 

His that inverted glory. 
Hate, envy, oft the Doug las bore ; 
But he has superadded more, 

And sunk them in contempt : 
Follies and crimes have srain'd the name, 
But..Queensberry, thine the virgin claim, 
From ought that's good exempt. 

VERSES TO JOHN M'MURDO, ESQ. 

[WITH A PRESENT OF BOOKS.] 2 ** 

Oh, could I give thee India's wealth 

As I this tritle 'end! 
Because thy joy in both would be 
To share them with a friend. 

But golden sands did never grace 

The Heiieonian stream: 
Then take what gold could never buy — 

An honest Bard's esteem. 



ON 


MR. 


M'MURDO. 


SCRIBED ON A 


PANE 


OF GLASS IN 


lest be M'Mti 


rdo to his latest d; 






M BURNS' POETICAL WOM 

May foes be Strang, and friends be slack, 

Ilk action may lie rue it ; 
May woman on him turn her back, 

That wrangs thee, Willie Stewart. 



MONTGOMERY'S PEGGY.218 

Tune.— 1 ' Gala- Water. 
Altho' my bed were in yon muir, 

Ainang the heather, in my plaidie, 
Yet happy, happy would I be, 

Had I my dear Montgomery's Peggy. 
When o'er the hill beat surly storms, 

And winter nights wore dark and rainy; 
I'd seek some dell, and in my arms 

I'd shelter dear Montgomery's Peggy. 
Were I a baron proud and high. 

And corse and servants waiting ready, 
Then a' twad gie o' joy to me, 

The sharin't with Montgomery's Peggy. 

BONNY PEGGY ALISON.219 
Pane— "Braes o' Balquhidder." 
I'll kiss thee yet. yet. 

And I'll kiss thee o'er again ; 
And I'll kiss thee yet, yet, 

My bonnie Peggy Alison! 
Ilk care and fear, when thou art hear, 

I ever mair defy them, O ! 
Young kings upon their hansel throne 

Are no sae blest as I am, O ! 

When in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, 

I clasp my countless treasure, O ! 
I seek nae mair o' Heaven to share, 

Than sic a moment's pleasure, O '. 
And by thy e'en, sae bonnie blue, 

1 swear I'm thine for ever, O! 
And on thy lips I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never, O ! 



HERE'S TO THY HEALTH, MY BONNIE 
LASS. 
Tune— "Laggan Burn." 
Here's to thy health, my bonnie lass. 

Guid night, and joy he wi' thee : 
I'll come nae mair to thv bower-door, 

To tell thee that I lo'c thee: 
Oh, dinna think, my pretty pink, 

But I can live without thee : 
I vow and swear I dinna care 

How lang ye look about ye. 
Thon'rt aye sae free informing me 

Thou hast nae mind to marry : 
I'll be as free informing thee 

Nae time hue I to tarry. 
I ken thy friends try ilka means, 

Frac wedlock to delay thee ; 
Depending on some higher chance — 

Rut fortune may betray thee. 
1 ken they scorn my low estate, 

lint that does never grieve me ; 
Put I'm as free as any he, 

Sum' siller will relieve me. 
1 count my health my greatest wealth, 

Sae long as I'll enjoy it : 
I'll fear nae scant, I'll bode nae want, 

As lang's I get employment. 

But far-off fowls hae feathers fair, 

And aye until ye try them : 
Tho' they seem fair, still have a care, 

They may prove waur than I am. 
Rut at twal at night, when the moon shines 
bright. 

My dear, I'll come and sec thee ; 
For the man that lo'es his mistress weel, 

Nae travel makes him weary. 



Y O U N G P E G G V 220 
Tune—" Last time I came o'er the Muir.' 
Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass, 

Her Mu-h is like the mornin" 
The rosy dawn, the springing grass, 

With caiiv gems adorning: " 
Her eyes outshine the radiant beams 

That gild the passing shower, 
And glitter o'er the crystal streams, 

And cheer each fresli'ning flower. 

Her lips, more than the cherries bright, 

A richer dye has graced them; 
They charm th' admiring gazer's sight, 

And sweetly tempt to taste them : 
Her smile is. as the evening mild, 

When feat her' d tribes are courting, 
And little 1 imbkins wanton wild, 

In playful bands disporting. 

Were Fortune lovely Peggy's foe, 

Such sweetness would relent her ; 
As blooming spring unbends the brow 

Of surly, savage winter. 
Detraction's eye no aim can gain, 

Her winning powers to lessen ; 
And fretful envy grins in vain, 

The poison'd tooth to fasten. 
Ye pow'rs of honour, love, and truth, 

From ev'ry ill defend her: 
Inspire the highly-favour'd yeuth, 

The Destinies intend her: 
Still fan the sweet conubial flame 

Responsive in each bosom, 
And bless the dear parental name 

With many a filial blossom. 

THE PLOUGHMAN. 
Tune— "Up wi' the Ploughman.'' 

The ploughman he's a bonnie lad, 

His mind is ever true, jo ; 
His garters knit below his knee, 
His bonnet it is blue, jo. 
Tli en up wi' my ploughman lad, 

And hey my merry ploughman! 
Of a' the trades that I do ken. 
Commend me to the ploughman. 
Mv ploughman he comes hame at ecu, 

lie's often wat and weary ; 

Cast off the wat, put on the dry, 

And gae to bed, my dearii ! 

I will wash mv ploughman's hose, 

And I will dress his o'erlay ; 
1 will mak my ploughman's bed, 
And cheer him late and early. 

I hae been east, I hae been west, 

1 hae been at St. Johnston ; 
The bonniest sight that e'er I saw 

Was the ploughman laddie dancin'. 

Snaw-white stockins' on his legs, 

And siller buckles glancin' ; 
A guid blue bonnet on his head— 

And oh, but he was handsome ! 
Commend me to the barn-yard, 

And at the corn-mou", man ; 
I never gat mv eoggic foil. 

Till I meet wi' the ploughman. 

YOX WILD MOSSY MOUNTAINS. 221 
Tune—' 1 Yon wild mossy mountains." 

Yon wild mossy mountains sae lofty and wide, 

That nurse in their bosom the youth o' the 
Clyde, 

Where the grouse lead their coveys thro' the 
heather to feed, 

And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes on 



Where the grouse lead their coveys thr 

heather to feed, 
And the shepherd tents his flock as he pipes 

on his reed. 

is'ot Gowrie's rich valiias, nor Forth" s sunny 

To me has the charm o' yon wild, mossy moors ; 
Tor there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream, 
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my 
dream. 
For there, by a lanely and sequester'd stream, 
Resides a sweet lassie, my thought and my 
dream. 

Amang the wild mountains shall still be mv 

path, 
'Ilk stream foaming down its ain green, narrow 

strath : 
For there wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, 
While o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o' 

love. 
For there wi' my lassie, the day lang I rove, 
While o'er us unheeded flee the swift hours o' 

love. 

She is not the fairest, altho' she is fair; 
O" nice education but sma' is her share ; 
Her parentage humble as humble can be ; 
But 1 lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me. 

Her parentage humble as humble can be ; 

But I lo'e the dear lassie because she lo'es me. 

To beauty what man but maun yield him a 

prize. 
In her armour of glances, and blushes, and sighs ? 
And when wit and refinement hae polish'd her 

darts, 
They dazzle our e'en, as they flee to our hearts. 
And when wit and refinement has polish'd her 

darts, 
They dazzle our e'en, as they flee to our 

hearts. 

But kindness, sweet kindness, in the fond spark- 
ling e'e, 

Has lustre outshining the diamond to me ; 

And the heart boating love, as I'm clasp'd in her 
arms, 

Oh, those are mv lassie's all-conquering charms! 
And the heart' beating love as I'm clasp'd in 

her arms. 
Oh, tbese are my lassie's all-conquering 
charms ! 



OX CESSNOCK BANKS. 
Tune— "If he be a Butcher neat and trim.' 
On t Cessnock banks there lives a lass, 

Could I describe her shape and mien ; 
The graces of her weel-faur'd face. 
And the glancin' of her sparklin' e'en ! 



"When dew-drops twinkle 
And she's twa glancin" s 

She's stately like yon youthful ash, 

That grows the cowslip braes between, 
And shoots its head above each bush; 

And she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en, 
She's spotless as the flow'ring thorn, 

With rtow'rs so white, and leaves so green, 
When purest in the dewy morn ; 

And she's twa glancin* sparklin' e'en. 
Her looks are like the sportive lamb, 

When flow'ry May adorns the scene, 
That wantons round its bleating dam ; 

And she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 
Her hair is like- the curling mist 

That shades the mountain-side at e'en, 
When fiow"ry -reviving rains are past; 

And she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 



1-PllLRSOKS FAREWELL. 

the 



Her forehead s like the show'ry bow. 

When shining sunbeams intervene. 
And gild the distant mountain's brow; 

And she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 
Her voice is like the evening thrush 

That sings on Cessnock banks unseen. 
While his mate sets nestling in the bush; 

And she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

Her lips are like the cherries ripe 
That sunnv walls from Boreas screen. 

They tempt the taste and charm the sight ; 
And she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

Her teeth are like a flock of sheep. 
With fleeces newly washen clean, 

That slowly mount the rising steep: 
And she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en, 

Her breath is like the fragrant breeze 
That gently stirs the blossom'd bean, 

When Phoebus sinks beneath the seas; 
And she's twa glancin' sparklin' e'en. 

But it's not her air, her form, her face, 
Tho' matching beauty's fabled queen ; 

But the mind that shines in cv'rygrace, 
And chiefly in her sparklin' e'en. 



P OWEES CELESTI A L. 
Tune— " Blue Bonnets." 
Powers celestial ! whose protection 

Ever guards the virtuous fair. 
While in distant climes I wander, 

Let my Mary be. your care : 
Let her form sae fair and faultless, 

Fair and failings as your own. 
Let my Mary's kindred spirit 

Draw your choicest influence down. 

Make the gales you waft around her 

Soft and peaceful as her breast, 
Breathing in the breeze that fans her, 

Soothe her bosom into rest: 
Guardian angels! oh protect her, 

When in distant lands I roam: 
To realms unknown while fate exiles n>e, 

Make her bosom still my home. 

I'M OWRE YOUNG TO MARRY YET. 
Tune—" I'm owrc young to many yet." 
I am my mammy's ac bairn. 
Wi' unco folk I weary. Sir; 
And if I gang to your house, 
I'm fley'd 'twill make me eerie, Sir. 
I'm owre young to marry yet; 

I'm owre yonng to marry yet ; 
I'm owre young— 'twad be a" sin 
To take me frae my mammy yet. 
Hallowmas is come and gane. 

The nights are lang in winter. Sir; 
And you and I in wedlock's bands, 
In troth, I dare not venture, Sir. 
I'm owre young, <fec. 
Fu' loud and shrill the frosty wind 

Blaws through the leafless timmer, Sir; 
But if ye come this gate again. 
I'll aulder be gin simmer. Sir. 
I'm owre young, &c. 



M-PIIERSON'S FAREWELL.222 

Tune—" Macpherson's Rant." 
Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong, 

The wretch's destinie ! 
Macpherson's time will not be long 

On yonder gallows-tree. 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Sacrantinglr, sae wantonly, 

.sae daunting! y gaed he ; 
He play'd a spring, and clanc d it. round, 

Below the gallows-tree. 

Oli. what is death hut parting breath?— 

On mony a bloody plain 
I've dar'd his face, and in this place 

1 scorn hifh yet again! 
Untie these bands from off my hands, 

And bring to me my sword ; 
And there's no man in all .Scotland, 

But I'll brave him at a word. 
I've liv'd a life of start and strife ; 

I die by treacherie: 
It burns in y heart I must depart, 

And not avenged be. 

Xow farewell light— thou sunshine bright, 

And all beneath the sky! 
May coward shame disdain his name, 

The wretch that dares not die ! 

HERE'S A HEALTH TO THEM THAT'S AWA'. 

Tune,— "Here's a health to them that's awa'." 
Here's a health to them that's awa', 

A «* wha winna wish guid luck to our cause, 

May never guid luck be their fa' ! 

It's gnid to be merry and wise. 

It's guid to be honest and true, 

Its guid to support Caledonia's, 

And bide by the buff and the blue. 

Here's a health to them that's awa' 
Here's a health to them that's awa' ; 
Here's a health to Charlie,--^ the chief o' the 

clan, 
Altho' that his band be but sum'. 
May Liberty meet wi' success ! 
May Prudence protect her frae evil! 
May tyrants and tyranny tine in the mist, 
And wander their 'way to the devil ! 
Here's a health to them that's awa', 
Here's a health to them that's awa' : 
Here's a health to Tammie, the Norland laddie, 
'that lives at the lug o' the law ! 
Here's freedom to him that wad read ! 
Here's freedom to him that wad write ! 
There's nane ever fear'd that the truth should 

be heard, 
But they wham the truth wad indite. 
Here's a health to them that's awa', 
IP-re's a health to them that's awa': 
Here's Chieftain M-Leod, a Chieftain worth 

gow'd, 
Tho" bred aiming mountains o' snaw! 
Here's friends on both sides of the Forth, 
And friends on both sides of the Tweed; 
And wha wad betray old Albion's rights, 
May they never eat of her bread! 

THE BLUBE-EED ROSE AT YULE MAY 
BLAW. 

Tune— "To daunton me." 
The blade-red rose at Yule may blaw, 
The simmer lilies bloom in snaw. 
The frost mav freeze the deepest sea ; 
But an auld man shall never daunton me. 

To daunton me, and me so young. 
Wi' his fanse heart and flatt'ring tongue, 
That is the thing yon ne'er shall see : 
For an auld man shall never daunton me. 

Lor a' his meal, and a' his mant, 

Fur a' his fresh beef and his saut, 

For a' his gold and white, monie, 

An auld man shall never daunton me. 

His gear may buy hint kye and yowes. 

His gear may buy him glens and fcnowes; 



He hirples twa-fauld as he dow, 

Wi' his teethless gab and his auld held pow. 
And the rain rains down from ids red bleer'd 

e'e— 
That auld man shall never daunton me. 

WHEN .JANUAIT WIND.22J 
Tune—- The lass that made the bed to me."' 
When Januar' wind was blawing cauld, 

As to the north I took my way. 
The mirksome nie/hr did ine enfauld, 

I knew na where to lodge till day. 
By my good luck a maid I met, 

Just in the middle o' my care ; 
And kindly she did me invite 

To walk into a chamber fair. 

I bow'd fu' low unto this maid, 

And thank'd her for her courtesie; 
1 bow'd fu' low unto this maid, 

And bade her niak a bed to me. 
She made the bed baith large and wide, 

Wi' twa white hands she spread it down; 
She put the cup to her 'rosy lips, 

And drank, " Young man, now sleep ye soim'." 
She snatch' d the candle in her hand, 

And frae mv chamber went wi' speed; 
But I cail'd her quickly back again, 

To lay some niair below my head. 
A cod she laid below my head, 

And served me wi' due respect ; 
And to salute her wi' a kiss, 

I put my arms about her neck. 

" Hand aft vour hands, voung man," she savs, 

"And diiina sae uncivil be: 
If ye hae ony love for me, 

O wrang na my virginitie !'' 

Her hair was like the links o' gowd, 

Her teeth were like the ivorie ; 
Her cheeks like lilies dipt in wine, 

The lass that made the bed to inc. 
Her bosom was the driven snaw. 

Twa drifted heaps sae fair to see ; 
Her limbs the poli-h'd marble stane, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 

I kiss'd her owre and owre again, 
' And aye she wist na what to say; 
1 I laid her 'tween me and the wa'— 
The lassie thought na king tid day. 

I Upon the morrow when we rose, 
I I thank'd her for her courtesie ; 
i But aye she blush'd, and aye she sigh' d. 
And said, "Alas! ye've ruin'd me !" 

I clasp'd her waist, and kiss'd her syne. 
] While the tear stood twinklin' in her e'e ; 
| I said, " My lassie, dinna cry, 

For ye aye shall make the bed to me.'' 
She took her mither's Holland sheets, 

And make them a' in sarks to me : 
Blythe and merry may she be, 

The lass that made the bed to me. 
The bonnie lass made the bed to me, 

The braw lass made the bed to me 
I'll ne'er forget till The day I die, 

The lass that made the bed to me ! 

BONNIE ANN.??.? 
Tune— Ye gallants bright." 
Ye gallants bright, I red ye right, 

Beware o' bonnie Ann; 
Her comely fa cesae fu' o' grace, 
Your heart she will trepan. 



rs by night, 



Her e'en sae bright. 1 

Her skin is like the siv.iii ; 
Sae jirnply lac'd her genty waist, 

That sweetly ye might span. 
Youth, grace, and love, attendant move, 

And pleasure leads the van : 
In a' their charms, and conquering arm?, 

They wait on bonnie Ann. 
The captive bands may chain the hands, 

But love enslaves the man ; 
Ye gallants braw. I red yon a', 

Beware o' bonnie Ami ! 

BLOOMING NELLY. 

Tune— 1 - On a bank of Flowers.'' 
Ox a bank of flowers, in a summer day, 

For summer lightly dresr, 
Tim youthful blooming Nelly lay, 

With love and sleep opprest ; 
When Willie, wand'ring thro' the Avood, 

Who for her favour oft had sued. 
He gaz'd, he wish'd he fear'd, he blush'd, 

And trembled where he stood. 
Her closed eyes like weapons sheath'd, 

Were seal'd in soft repose ; 
Her lips still as she fragrant breath'd, 

It richer dy'd the rose. 
The springing lilies sweetly prest, 

Wild— wanton, kiss'd iier rival breast; 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, 

His bosom ill at rest. 

Her robes light waving in the breeze, 

Her tender limbs embrace : 
Her lovely form, her native ease, 

All harmony and grace : 
Tumultuous tides his pulses roll. 

A faltering, ardent kiss he stole : 
He gaz'd, he wish'd, he fear'd, he blush'd, 

And sigh'd his very soul. 

As flies the partridge from the brake, 

On fear-inspired wings. 
So Nelly starting, half awake, 
Away affrighted sprincrs : 
Bat Willie follow'd. as he should, 

He overtook her in the wood; 
He vow'd. he pray'd, he found the maid 

Forgiving all arid good. 



MY HEART'S IN THE HIGHLANDS. 

Tune—'- Failte na Miosg " 

Mr heart's in the Highlands, my heart is n 

here ; 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasmg tl 

deer ; 
Chasing the wild deer. and. following the roe— 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 

Farewell to the Highlands, farewell to tl 

North, 
The birth-place of valour, the .country 

worth ; 
Wherever I wander, wherever I rove, 
The hills of the Highlands for ever I l-v C . 



Farewell to the mcuntai 



l covered with 



Farewell to the straths and green rallies L 

low : 
Farewell to the forests and wild-hang' 

woods ; 
Farewell to the" torrents and lond-v.'omv 

floods. 

Z>Iy heart's in the Highlands, my heart is n 

here, 
My heart's in the Highlands a-chasing i. 

deer- 
Chasing the wild deer, and following the roc— 
My heart's in the Highlands wherever I go. 



J SONG. 07 

TO MARY IN HEAVEN.22fl 
Turn—" Death of Captain Cook." 
Thotj ling'ring star, with less'ning ray, 

That lov'st to greet the early morn, 
Again thon usher'st in the clay 

3Iv Mary from my soul was torn. 
Oh Mary ! dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of blissful rest? 
See"st thou thy lover lowlv laid ? 

Hearst thoii the groans that rend his breast! 

That sacred hoar can I forget, 

Can I forget th. hall iwedgrOve, 
Where by the winding Ayr we met, 

To live one day of parting love ! 
Eternity will not efface 

Those records dear of transports past ; 
Thy image at our last embrace; 

Ah ! little thought; we 'twas our last I 
Ayr. gurgling, kis^'d his pebbled shore, 

O'erhung with wild woods, thick'ning green! 
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar, 

Twin'd am'rous round the raptur'd scene ; 
The flow'rs sprang wanton to be prest, 

The birds sang love on every spray- 
Till soon, too soon, the glowing w ist 

Proclaim' d the speed of winged I y. 
Still o'er these scenes my meuvry wakes, 

And fondiv broods with mi- er care 1 
Time but th' inn session str< . rn ik 3, 

As streams their channel ( .wear. 

My Mary! deard 

Where is thy place of his-ful iv-.d V 
See'st thou thv lover lowlv laid 'i 

Hear'st thou the groans "that rend his breast ? 

YOUNG JOCKEY. 
Tune—" Young Jockey." 
Yountg .Jockey was the blythest lad 

In a' our town or here awa' : 
Fit blvthe lie whistled at the gaud, 

Fu' lightly danced he in the ha', 
lie roosed my e'en, sae bonnie blue, 

He roosed my waist sae genty sma', 
And aye my heart came to my mou' 

When ne y er a body heard or saw. 

My Jockey toils upon the plain, 

Thro' wind and wect, thro' frost and siiaw: 
And o'er the lea I leak fu' vain, 

When Jockey's owsen hameward ca'. 
And aye the night comes round again, 

When in his arms he takes me a', 
And aye he vows he'll be my ain, 

As lang's he has a breath to draw. 

I DO CONFESS THOU ART SAE FAIR. 
I do confess thou art sae fair, 

I wad been owre the lugs in love. 
Had I na found the slightest prayer, 

Thy lips could speak, thy heart coald move. 
I do confess thee sweet, but find 

Thou art sae thriftless o" thy swe .'. ; , 
Thv favours are the sillv wind, 

That kisses ilka things i: meets. 

See yonder rose-bud, rich in dew, 

Amang its native briers sae coy; 
How sun/ it times its scent and hue 

When pou'd and worn a common toy ! 
Sic fate, ere lang, shall thee betide, 

Tim' thou mav gailv bloom awhile ! 
Yet soon thou shalt lie thrown aside, 

Like ony common weed and vile. 





HUNTING SONG 


Tune—"1 


red you beware at t 


The heather 


was blooming, the 



l Our lads gaed a-hun 



98 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Owrc moors and owrc mosses and mony a glen. 
At length they discover'd a bonnie moor-hen. 
I red you beware at the hunting, young 

men ; 
I red you beware at the hunting, younj 

men ; 
Tak some on the wing, and some as thej 

spring, 
But cannily steal on a bonnie moor-hen. 

Sweet brushing the dew from the brown heathei 

bells, 
Her colours betray'd her on yon mossy fells; 
Her plumage out-lustred the pride o' the spring. 
And oh! as she wantoned gay on the wing. 
I red you beware, Arc. 

Auld Phoobus himscl', as he pecp'd o'er the 

liill, 
In spite at her plumage he tried his skill; 
He levell'd his rays where she bask'd on the 

brae— 

were outshone, and but mark'd where 



she lay. 
I red you beware 



ctC. 



They hunted the valley, they hunted the hill; 
The best of our lads wi' the best o' their skill; 
But still as the fairest she sat in their sight, 
Then, whirr! she was over, a mile at a flight. 
I red you beware, <fcc. 

KENMURE'S ON AND AWA' 22? 

Time—"- Oh Kenmure's on and awa", Willie !" 
On. Keimure's on and awa", Willie! 

Oh, Kenmure's on and awa' ! 
And Kenmure's lord's the bravest lord 
That ever Galloway saw. 

Success to Kenmure's band, Willie! 

.Success to Kenmure's band; 
There's no a heart that fears a Whig, 

That rides by Kenmure's hand. 
Here's Kenmure's health in wine, Willie! 

Here's Kenmure's health in wine; 
There ne'er was a coward o' Kenmure's blude, 

Nor yet o' Gordon's line. 

Oh, Kenmure's lads are men. Willie ! 

Oh, Kenmure's lads are men ; 
Their hearts and swords are metal true— 

And that their faes shall ken. 

They'll live or die wi' fame, Willie ! 

They'll live or die wi' fame ; 
But soon, wi' sounding victorie, 

May Kenmure's lord come name ! 

Here's him that's far awa', Willie ! 

Here's him that's far awa' ! 
And here's the flower that I lo'e best— 

The rose that's like the snaw ! 

SUCH A PARCEL OF ROGUES IN A 
NATION. 

Tune— f A parcel of rogues in a nation." 

Fareweel to a' our Scottish fame, 

Fareweel our ancient glory, 
Fareweel even to the Scottish name, 

Sue fam'd in martial story. 
Now Sark rins o'er the Solway sands, 

And Tweed rins to the ocean, 
To mark where England's province stands:— 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation! 
What force or guile could not subdue, 

Thro' many warlike ages, 
Is wrought now by a coward few, 

For hireling traitors' wages. 
The English steel we could disdain, 

Secure in valour's station; 
Lut English gold has been our banc:— 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation. 



O would I had not seen the day 

That treason thus could fell us, 
My auld grey head had lien in clay, 

Wi' Bruce and loyal Wallace! 
But pith and power, till my last hour, 

I'll mak this declaration; 
We're bought and sold for English gold:- 

Such a parcel of rogues in a nation ! 



THE exciseman; 



The deil cam fiddling through the town, 

And danced awa' wi' the Exciseman, 

And ilka wife cries— "Auld Mahoun 

I wish vouluck o' the prize man !" 

The deil's awa', the deil's awa'. 

The deil's awa' wi' the Exciseman ; 
He's dane'd awa', he's dane'd awa'. 
He's dane'd awa' wi' the Exciseman ! 

We'll mak our maut, we'll brew our drink, 
We'll dance, and sing, and rejoice, man : 
And mony braw thanks to the meiklc black deil 
That dane'd awa' wi' the Exciseman ! 
The deil's awa', the deil's awa', 

The deil's awa' wi' the. Exciseman; 
He's dane'd awa', he's dane'd awa', 
He's dane'd awa' wi' the Exciseman ! 

There's theesome reels, there's foursome reels, 

There's hornpipes and strathspeys, man; 
But the ae best dance e'er came to the land, 
Was— the deil's awa' wi' the Exciseman ! 
The deil's awa', the deil's awa', 

The deil's awa" wi' the Excsieman : 
He's dane'd awa'. he's dane'd awa', 
He's dane'd awa' wi' the Exciseman ! 



I'LL AYE Cxi' IN BY YON TOWN. 

Tune— "I'll gac nae mair to yon town.' 

I'll aye ca' in by yon town, 

And by j-on garden green, again ; 
I'll aye ca' in by yon town, 

And see my bonnie Jean again; 
There's nane sail ken, there's nane sail guess, 

What brings me back the gate again; 
But she, my fairest, faithfu' lass. 

And stowlins we sail meet again. 
She'll wander by the aiken tree, 

When trystin'-time draws near again ; 
And when her love form I see, 

Oh, haith, she's doubly dear again! 
I'll aye ca' in by yon town, 

And by yon garden green, again; 
I'll aye ca' in by yon town, 

And see my bonnie Jean again. 



COULD OUGHT OF SONG. 
Tune—" At setting day." 
Could aught of song declare my pains, 

Could artful numbers move thee, 
The Muse should tell, in labour'd strains, 

Oh Mary, how I love thee! 
They who' but feign a wounded heart 

May teach the lyre to languish; 
But. what avails the pride of art, 

When wastes the soul with anguish? 
Then let the sudden bursting sigh 

The heart-felt pang discover; 
And in the keen, yet tender eye, 

Oh read th' imploring lover - ! 
For well I know thy gentle mind 

Disdains art's gav disguising : 
Beyond what fancy e'er refln'd. 

The voice of nature prizing. 



THE FATK (. 'HAMPE'lHE. 



II. STEER II EH LP. 
Tune—- Oh, steer her up, and hand her gaun. ' 
Oh. steer her up, and hand her gaun— 

Her mother's at the mill, jo; 
And gif she winna take a man, 

E'en let her take her will, jo ; 
First shore her wi' a kindly kiss, 

And ca' another gill, jo, 
And gif she take the thing amiss, 

Ev'n let her fiyte her fill, j o, 

Oh, steer her up. and be na blate, 

And gif -he take it ill, jo, 
Then lea'e the lassie till her fate, 

And time nae langer spill, jo : 
Ne'er break your heart for ane rebut, 

But think upon it still, jo ; 
Then gif the lassie winna do't, 

Ye'll find anither will, jo. 

IT WAS A - FOR OUR RIGHTFU' KING.22 

Tune— ''It was a' for our rightfu' king. 
It was a' for our rightfu' king 

We left fair Scotland's strand ; 
It was a' for our rightfu' king 

We e'er saw Irish land, 
My dear; 

We e'er saw Irish land. 
Now a' is done that men can do, 

And a' is done in vain ; 
My love and native land farewell, 

For I maun cross the main, 
My dear ; 

For I maun cross the main. 
He turned him right, and round about 

Upon the Irish shore ; 
And gie his bridle-reins a shake, 

With adieu for evermore, 
My dear; 
With adieu for evermore. 
The sodger from the wars returns, 

The sailor frae the main; 
But I hae parted frae my love, 

Never to meet again, 
My dear ; 
Never to meet again. 
When day is gane, and night is come, 

And a' folk bound to sleep ; 
I think on him that's far awa', 

The lee-lang niubt and weep, 
My dear; 
The lee-lang night and weep. 

OH, LAY THY LOOF IN MINE, LASS. 
Tune—'- Oordwainer's March.'' 
Oh, lay thy loof in mine, lass, 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass, 
And swear on thy white hand, lass, 

That thou wilt be my ain. 
A slave to love's unbounded sway, 
He aft has wrought me meikle wae ; 
But now he is my deadly fae, 
Unless thou be my ain. 

There's raonv a lass has broke mv rest, 
That for a blink I hae lo'ed best f 
But thou art queen within my breast. 
For ever to remain. 

Oh, lay thy loof in mine, lass: 
In mine, lass, in mine, lass : 
And swear on thy white hand, lass, 
That thou wilt be my ain. 

OH MALLY'S MEEK. MALLY'S SWEET, 
Oh Mally's meek, Mally's sweet, 

Mally's modest and discreet, 
Mally's rare. .Mally's fair, 
Mally's every way complete. 



As I was walk 
A bare fit ma 

But oh! the re 
For that fair 



id was 
maidej 



3 tender feet. 



It were mair meet that those fine feet 
Were weel lae'd up in silken shoon, 

And 'twere more fit that she should sit 
Within yon chariot gilt aboon. 

I Her yellow hair, beyond compare, 

Comes trinkling down her swan-white neck; 

And her twa eyes, like stars in skies, 
Would keep a sinking ship frae wreck. 

CASSILLIS' BANKS. 
Now bank and brae are claith'd in green, 

And scatter'd cowslips sweetly spring: 
By (iirvan's fairy-haunted stream 

The birdies flit on wanton wing. 
To C'assillis' hanks when evening fa's, 

There wi' my Mary let me flee, 
There catch her ilka glance of love. 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e"e! 

The chield wha boasts o' warld's wealth, 

Is aftcn laird o' meikle care: 
But Mary she is a' my ain— 

Ah ! fortune canna gie me mair. 
Then let me range by Cassilis' banks, 

Wi' her. the lassie dear to me, 
And catch her ilka glance o' love, 

The bonnie blink o' Mary's e'e ! 



Mr lady's gown, there's gairs upon't, 
And gowden flowers sac rare upon't ; 
But Jenny's jimps and jirkinet, 
My lord thinks mickle mair upon't. 

My lord a-huntinghe is gane, 

But hounds or hawks wi' him are nan: ; 

By (John's cottage lies his game, 

If Colin's Jenny be at hanie. 

My lady's white, my lady's red, 
And kith and kin o' Cassillis' hluid : 
But her ten-pund lands o' tocher guid 
Were a' the charms his lordship lo'ed. 

Out owre yon muir, out owre yon moss, 
Where gorcocks thro' the heather pass, 
There wons auld Colin's bonnie lass, 
A lily in a wilderness ! 

Sae sweetly move her genty limbs, 
Like music notes o' lovers' hymns: 
Tin- diamond dew is her e'en sae blue. 
Where laughing love sac wanton swims. 



make him blest ! 



THE FETE CHAMPETRE.230 
Tune— "Killicrankie." 
On wha will to Saint Stephen's house, 

To do our errands there, man ? 
Oh wha will to Saint Stephen's house, 

O' th' merry lads of Ayr, man? 
Or will we send a man-o'-law? 

Or will we send a sodger V 
Or him wha led o'er Scotland a' 

The meikle Ursa-Major '! 



Their vote shall be Glencaird's, 



LcFC. 



Anc pics them coin, ane gies thorn wine, 

Anither jritrs ihcm clatter : 
Annbaiik, wha guessed the ladies' taste, 

He gies a F§te Champetre. 

When Love and Beauty heard the news, 

The gay green-woods amang. man; 
Where, gathering flowers and busking bower-' 

They heard die blackbird's sang, man; 
A vow, they seal'd it with a kiss," 

Sir Politics to fetter, 
As theirs alone, the patent-bliss, 

To hold a Fete Champetre. 
Then mounted Mirth, on gleesonie wing, 

Owre hill and dale she lie v.'. man ; 
Ilk wimpling burn, like crystal spring, 

Ilk glen and shaw she knew, man : 
She suinmun'd every social sprite, 

That sports by wood or water, 
On tli' bonnie banks of Ayr to meet, 

And keep this Fete Champetre. 

Cauld Boreas, wi' his boisterous crew, 

Were bound to stakes like kye, man; 
And Cynthia's car. o" silver fu', 

Clamb up the starry sky. man: 
Reflected beams dwell in the streams, 

Or down the current shatter; 
The western breeze steals through the trees, 

To view this Fete Champetre. 
How many a robe sac gaily floats ! 

What sparkling jewels glance, man; 
To Harmony's enchanting notes, 

As moves the mazy dance, man. 
The echoing wood, the winding flood, 

kike Para i Use did glitter, 
When angels met. at Adam's yett, 

To hold their Fete Champetre. 

When Politics came there, to mix, 
And make his ether-stane, man ; 

II o. circled round the magic ground, 
But entrance found he nane, man. 

.ashed for shame, he quat his name,-3i 



Fors 



Wi' 



i it. every 



ro.,o: 



ampetrc. 



HOW CAN I BE BLYTHE AND GLAD ? 

Tune— "The bonnie lad that's far awa.'." 
Oh how can I be blythe and glad, 

Or how can I gang brisk and braw, 
When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best 
Is owre the hills and far awa' ? 
When the bonnie lad that I lo'e best 
Is owre the hills and far awa' ? 

It's no the frosty winter wind, 

It's no the driving drift and snaw; 
But aye the tear comes in mv e'e, 
To think on him that's far awa'. 
But aye the tear conies in my e'e, 
To think on him that's far awa'. 
My father put me frae his door, 

My friends they hae disowned me a', 
But 1 hae ane will tak my part, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa'. 
But I hae ane will tak my part, 
The bonnie lad that's far awa' 



A pair o' gloves 


he 


gave t 


o n 








And silken sn 






ve 


me 


tvva ; 


And 1 will weai 


tb 




bis 


sal 






The bonnie la 


1 tl 


at's fa 










And I will -* 




• them 


fol 


hi 




ke, 


The bonni 


e h 


d that 


S f 


ra 


wa 




The weary winter 


soon w 


Hi 


ias 






And spring w 




leed tl 




rk 




shaw ; 


And mv sweet 




v will 










And he'll eon 




ime tli 


It' 


fa 






And my sw 


set 




ill 


be 


101 




And he'll 


con 


le ham 


e t 


iat 


sf. 


rawa'. 



POETICAL WORKS. 

LOVELY POLLY STEWART. 
Tune—- 'You're welcome, Charlie Stewart." 
On lovely Polly .Stewart! 

Oh charming Polly Stewart! 
There's not a flower that blooms in May 

That's half so fair as thou art. 
The flower it blaws, it fades, and fa's, 

And art can ne'er renew it ; 
But worth and truth eternal youth 
Will give to Polly Stewart." 

May he whose arms shall fanld thy charms 

Possess a leal and true heart ; 
To him be given to ken the heaven 

He grasps in Pollv Stewart! 
Oh lovely Polly Stewart ! 

Oh charming Polly Stewart! 
There's ne'er a flower that blooms in May 

That's half so sweet as thou art. 

HANDSOME NELL.232 
Tune— 1 - 1 am a man unmarried." 
Oh once I lov'd a bonnie lass, 

Aye, and I love her still : 
And whilst that virtue warms my breast, 
I'll love my handsome Nell, 

As bonnie lassies I ha'e seen, 

And mony full as braw; 
But for a modest gratefu' mien, 

The like I never saw. 
A bonnie lass, I will confess, 

Is pleasant to the e'e, 
But without some better qualities, 

She's no a lass for me. 

But. Nelly's looks are blythe and sweet, 

And, what is best of a', 
Her reputation is complete, 

And fair without a flaw. 
She dresses aye sae clean and neat, 

Both decent and genteel: 
And then there's something in her gait 

Gars ony dress look week 
A gaudy dress and gentle air 

May slightly touch the heart; 
But it's innocence and modesty 

That polishes the dart. 

'Tis this in Nelly pleases me, 

'Tis this enchants my soul; 
For absolutely in my breast 

She reigns without control. 

MY FATHER WAS A FARMER.233 
Tune— "The Weaver and his Shuttle, !" 

My father was a farmer upon the Carrick bor- 
der, O ! 

And carefully he bred me in decency and or- 
der, !• 

He bade me act a manly part, though 1 had ne'er 
a farthing, O ! 
without an honest manly heart, no man was 
worth regarding, O! 

Then out into the world, my course I did deter- 
mine, 0! 
>' to be rich was not mv wish, yet to be great 
was charming. O 

My talents they were not the worst, nor yet my 
education, O ! 

Rcsolv'd was I, at least to trv,tomend my situa- 
tion, O! 
nany a way, and vain essay, I courted for- 
tune's favour, O ! 

Some cause unseen still stept between, to frus- 
trate each endeavour, O! 
aetimes by foes I was o'erpower'd; some- 
times by friends forsaken, O! 

And when my hope was at the top, I still was 
worst mistaken, O ! 



'ill.; 



Then sure 
I dropt iijj 

to til 

The past v 

or ill 

Bat the r. 

No help 



Thus a 

I 

Till do 



morrow, 
But cheerful s 

a palace. 
Tho' fortune's frow 

all he 
I make in< 

make 
But, as dail 



THE 0O1IT 


u WIDOWER. 


and tir'd at last, with for- 


Hey, the dusty miller, 




And his dusty sack: 


. like idle dreams, and came 


Leeze me on the calling 




Fills the dusty peck — 


id 'tho future hid; its good 


fills the dustv peck. 




Brings the dusty s 


r was in my pow'r, and so I 


I wad L'ie mv coatie 




For the dusty mill 


or view had I, nor person to 


eobeTsm 


sweat, and broil, and labour 


Tarter-" Dainty Tj 




There was a lad was burn 


to rcau and mow, my fathar 


But whatna day o' watna 


! 


I doubt it's hardly worth t 


labour bred, was a matehfor 


To be sae nice wi* Eobin 


0! 


Eobin was a rovin' bov 


Iknown, and poor, thro' life 


Kantin', rovin'. rant 


w uider, 1 1 ! 


Eobin was a rovin' bm 


bones I lay, in everlasting 


Kantin- rovin' Robin" 


. . . v'-it^p'r -n="-ht 


Onr monarch's hind 




Wasfivc-and-twe::;- 


elTsIinay, regardless ofto- 


'Twasthen a bl.^t -' • .'■: 
Blew hansel in on Kbbii 


am as well as a monarch in 


The gossip keekit in his 1 




Quo she, wha live will s 



.1 her, O! 

When sometimes b; 

money, O! 
Some unforeseen n 

npon me. ! 
Mischance, mistake. 

natur'd i 
But come wha 

be mclar 



n still hunts me down, with 
read, but ne'er can 
eed, I do not much 



• 1 ( 



1'his walv 
I think v 






. or by neglect, or my good- 

U! 

. I've sworn it still, I'll ne'er 



Had you the wealt 
adore you, \ 

A cheerful, honest 
before you, O 



•on look for bliss, you leave 
farther, O! 
i Potosi boasts, or nations to 

-hearted clown I will prefer 



UP IX THE MORNING EARLY. 

Tune—" Cold blows the wind." 

CHOKES. 

Up in the morning's no for me, 

Up in the morning earlv : 
When a' the hills are cover' d wi' snaw, 

I'm sure it's winter fairly. 



nd frae east to west, 
lsrsairlv; 

he blast, 



Cauld blawst 

The drift is driving s;; 
Sae loud and shrill I he; 
I'm sure it's winter fairly 

Tlie birds sit chittering in the thorn, 
A' day they far' bnt's arely; 

And lang's the night frae e'en to morn- 
I'm sure it's winter fairly. 

HEY, THE DUSTY MDLDEK. 
2fene^r"Tlie Dusty Miller." 
Het. the dustv miller, 
And his dusty coat ; 
He will win a shilling, 
Or he spend a groat. 
Dusty was the coat. 

Dusty was the colour, 
Dusty was the kiss 
That I got frae the miller. 



He'll hae misfortunes great and sma', 
But aye a heart-aboon them a' ; 
He'll be a credit till us a'— 
We'll a' be proud o' Eobin. 

But sure as three times three mak nine, 
I see by iika score and line, 
This chap will dearly like our kin'. 
So leeze me on thee Eobin. 

Guid faith, quo' she, I doubt you'i! gar 
The bonnie lasses lie aspar ; 
But twenty fauts ye may hae waur — 
!So blessih's on thee, Eobin '. 

HER FLOWING LOCKS. 23;, 
Her flowing locks, the raven's wing, 
Adown her neck and bosom king; 
How sweet unto that breast to cling, 

And round that neck entwine her I 
Her lips are roses wat wi' dew, 
Oh, What a feast her bonnie mou' ! 
Her cheeks a niair celestial hue, 

A crimson still diviner. 

THE SOXS OF OLD KILLIE.236 

Tune—" Shawnboy." 1 
Ye sons of old Killie, assembled by Willie, . 

To follow the noble vocation : 
Your thrifty old mother has scarce such another 

To sit in that honoured station. 
I've little to sav, bur only to pray. 

As praying's the ton of your fashion; 
A prayer from the Muse you well may excuse, 

'Tis seldom her favourite passion. 

The Powers who preside o'er the wincl and the 
tide, 
Who marked each element's border; 
Who formed this frame with beneficent aim, 

Whose sovereign statute is order; 
Within this dear mansion may wayward conten- 

Or withered envy ne'er enter; 

Mav secrecy round be the mystical bound, 
And brotherly love be the centre ! 

THE JOYFUL WIDOWER. 
Tune— -Maggy Lauder." 
I married with a scolding wife, 
The fourteenth of November ; 
She made me weary of my life. 
By one unruly member 



BUUNS' POETICAL WOEKS. 



Long did I bear the heavy yoke, 

And many griefs attended ; 
But. to my comfort be it spoke, 

Now, now her life is ended. 

"We lived full one-and-twenty year?, 

A man and wife together ; 
At length from me her course she's steer' d, 

And gone 1 know not whither : 
Would I could guess, I do profess, 

1 speak, and do not flatter, 
Of all the women in the world, 

I never could come at her. 
Her body is bestowed well. 

A handsome grave does hide her; 
But sure her soul is not in hell, 

The deil would ne'er abide her ! 
I rather think she is aloft, 

And imitating thunder; 
For why ?— methinks I hear her voice 

Tearing the clouds asunder 

O, WHARE DID YOU GET. 

Tune—" Bonnie Dundee." 
On, whare did you get that hauver meal ban- 
nock ? 

Oh. silly blind body, oh dinna ye see? 
I gat it frae a brisk yum-' sodger laddie, 

Between Saint Johnston and bonnic Dundee, 
Oh, gin I saw the laddie that gac me't! 

Aft has he doudled me upon his knee : 
May heaven protect my bonnie Scots laddie, 

And send him safe hame to his babie and me ! 

My blessin's upon thy sweet wee lippie, 

My blessin's upon thy bonnie e'e bree ! 
Thy smiles are sac like my blythe sodger laddie, 

1 lion's aye the dearer and dearer to me! 
But I'll big a bower on yon bonnie banks, 

Where Tav'rins whuplin' by sae clear; 
And I'll deed thee in the tartan sae fine, 

And mak thee a man like thy daddic dear. 

SECOND VERSION. 

Oh. where gat ye that bonnie blue bonnet? 
Oh, what makes them aye put the question to 

I gat it frao a bonnie Scots callan, 
Atween Saint Johnston and bonnie Dundee. 

Oh, gin I saw the laddie that gae me't! 
Aft has he doudled me upon his knee. 

May Heaven protect my bonnie Scots laddie, 
And send him safe hame to his baby and me ! 

My heart has nae room when I think on my 
laddie, 
His dear rosy haffets bring tears to my e'e— 
But, oh! he's awa', and I dinna ken whare 
he's— 
Gin we could ance meet, we'd ne'er part till we 
die. 
Oh. light be the breezes around him saft blawin', ' 

And o'er him sweet simmer still blink bonnilie. 
And the. rich dews o' plenty, around hi in wide ! 
fu'in', 
Prevent a' his fears for my baby and me ! . 
My blessin's upon that sweet wee lippie! 
My blessin's upon that bonnie e'ebree ! 
Thy smiles are sae like my blythe sodger laddie, 

Thou's aye the dearer and dearer to inc. 
But I'll big a bower on yon green bank sae bonnic, 
'flint's laved by the waters o'Tay wiin plin' el eai\ 
And eleed thee in tartans, my wee smiling 
Johnnie, 
And make thee a man like thy daddic dear. 

THERE WAS A LASS. 
7'une— u Duncan Davison." 
THEBE was a lass, they ca'd her Meg, 
Anil she held o'er the moors to spin ; 
There was a lad that follov.'d her 
They ca'd him Duncan Davison, 



The moor was dreigh, and Meg was skcigh, 

Her favour Duncan could na win ; 
For wi' the rock she wad him knock, 

And aye she shook the temper-pin. 
As o'er the moor they lightly foor, 

A burn was clear, a glen was green, 
Upon the banks they eas'd their shanks 

And aye she set the wheel between : 
But Duncan sware a haly aith. 

That Meg should be a bride, the morn. 
Then Meg took up her smnnin' graith, 

And flung them a' out o'er the burn. 

We'll big a house— a wee. wee house, 

And we will live like king and queen, 
Sae blythe and merry Ave will be, 

When he set by the wheel at e'en. 
A man may drink and no be drunk; 

A man may light and no be slain; 
A man may kiss a bonnie lass, 

And aye be welcome back again. 

LANDLADY, COUNT THE LAWIN'! 
Tune—" Hey tuttie, taitie." 
Landlady, count the lawin', 
The day is near the dawin'; 
Ye'rc a' blind drunk, boys, 
And I'm but jolly foil. 
Hey tuttie, taitie, 
How tuttie, taitie— 
Wha's fou now? 
Cog, an ye were aye fou, 
Cog, an ye were aye fou, 
I wad sit and sing to you, 

If ye were aye fou. 

Weel may ye a' be ! 

Ill may ye never sec! 

God bless the king, boys, 

And the companie! 

RATTLIN' ROARIN' WILLIE. 

Tune,— " Rattlin' Roarin' Willie." 
On rattlin' roarin' Willie, 

Oh. he held to the fair, 
And for to sell his fiddle. 

And buy some other ware ; 
But parting wi" his fiddle. 

The saut tear blin't his e'e; 
And rattlin' roarin' Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to me ! 

Oh Willie, come sell your fiddle, 

Oh sell vour fiddle sae fine; 
Oh Willie, come sell vour fiddle, 



An 



i pint .. 



1 my fiddle. "*" 
The war! would think I was mad; 
For monv a rantiii' day 
My fiddle and I line. had. 
s I cam by Croehnllan, 



Icai 



ben- 



Rantin' ro . 

Was sitting at yon board en'— 
Sitting at yon board on'. 

And aiming guid companies 
Rattlin' roarin' Willie, 

Ye're welcome hame to me ! 

SIMMER'S A PLEASANT TIME. 

Tune- 11 Aye waukin O!" 
Stmmeii's a pleasant time, 



■ate 



•ins o'er the he ugh, 
And I long for my true lover. 

Aye waukin' O! 

Waukin' still and wearic : 
Sleep I can get nane 
For thinking on my dcanc. 



WhCn I sleep I dream, • 

When I wank I'm eerie : 
.Sleep I can get nanc 

For thinking on my dearie. 

Lanely night comes on, 

A' the lave are sleepin' ; 
I think on my bonnie lad, 

And bleer my e'en wi' greetin". 

MY LOVE SHE'S BUT A LASSIE YET. 
Tune— "Lady Badinscoth's Keel." 
My love she's but a lassie, yet, 

My love she's but a lassie yet, 
We'll let her stand a year or twa, 
She'll no be half sac saucy sot. 
I rue the day I sought her. 0! 

I rue the day I sought her, O! 
Wha gets her need na say she's woo'd, 
But he may say he's bought her, ! 
Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet, 

Come, draw a drap o' the best o't yet ; 
Gae seek for pleasure where ye will, 

But here I never miss'd it yet. 
We're a dry wi' drinking o't', 

We're a' dry wi' drinking o't. 
Tbe minister ldss'd the fiddler's wife. 
And could na preach for thinking o't. 

THE CAPTAIN'S LADY. 
Tu we—" O Mount and Go.'' 

CHORUS. 

Oh, mount and go, 

nt and make you ready ; 



When the drums do beat. 
And the cannons rattle, 

Thou shalt sit in state, 
And sec thy love in battle. 

When the vanquished foe 
Sues for peace and quiet, 

To the shades we'll go, 
And in love enjoy it. 

FIRST WHEN MAGGY WAS MY C 

TVwe— "Whistle o'er the lave o't.' 
First when Maggy was my care. 
Heaven I thought was in her air; 
How we're married— spier nae mair- 

Whistlc o'er the lave o't. 
Mecr was meek, and Me? was mild, 
" Meg was Nature's child; 
len than me's beguil'd— 
stle o'er the lave o't. 



TIIENIEL MENZIE S BONNIE MARY. 

For beauty and fortune the laddie's bc< 



Bonn 

Wiser 

W 

How we live, my Meg and me, 
How we love, and how we 'gree, 
I care na by how few may see— 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 
Wha I wish were maggot's meat, 
Dish'd up in her winding sheet. 
I could write— hut Meg maun see't— 

Whistle o'er the lave o't. 

THERE'S A YOUTH IN THIS CITY. 
To a Gaelic Air. 
There's a youth in this city, it were a great 
Pity, 

That he frae our lasses should wander awa' ; 
For he's bonnie and braw, weel favoured and a', 

And his hair has a natural buckle and a". 
His coat is the hue of his bonnet sae blue; 

His fecket is white as the new-driven snaw; 
His hose they are blae, and his shoon like the 
slae, 

And his clear siller buckles thev dazzle us a'. 



Weel-featured, weel-tocher'd, weel-mounted 
and braw ; 
But chiefiv the siller, that gars him gang till 
her, 
The penny's the jewel that beautifies a'. 
There's Meg wi' the mailen that fain wad a- 
haen him : 
And Susie, whose daddie was laird o' the ha". 
There's lang-tocher'd Nancy maist fetters his 
fancy— 
But the 'laddie's dear sel' he lo'es dearest of a'. 

OH AYE MY WIFE SHE DANG ME. 

Tune—" My Wife she Dang me.' 
O aye my wife she dang me, 

And aft my wife did bang me, 
If ye gie a woman a' her will, 

Guid faith, she'll soon o'ergangyc. 
On peace and rest my mind was bent, 

And fool I was I married ; 
But never honest man's intent 

As cursedly miscarried. 
Some share o' comfort still at last, 

When a' my days are done, man; 
My pains o' hell on earth are past, 

I'm sure o' bliss aboon. man. 
Oh, aye my wife she dang me, 

And aft iny wife did bang me, 
If ye gie a woman a" her will, 

Guid faith, she'll soon o'crgang ye. 

EPPIE ADAIR. 

Tune— "My Eppie." 
And oh ! my Eppie, 
My jewel, my Eppie ! 
"W ha wadna be happy 

Wi' Eppie Adair? 
By love, and by beauty, 
By law, and by duty, 
I swear to be true to 

My Eppie Adair! 

And oh ! my Eppie, 
My jewel, my Eppie, 
Wha wadna be happy 

Wi' Eppie Adair? 
A' pleasure exile me, 
Dishonour defile me, 
If e'er I beguile thee, 

My Eppie Adair ! 

WHARE II AE YE BEEN? 

Tune—" Killiecrankie." 
Whare haeye been sae braw, lad? 

Whare hae ye been sae brankie, O ? 
Oh, whare hae ye been sac braw, lad? 

Cam ye by Killiecrankie, O? 
An ye hae been whare I hae been, 

Ye wad nae been sae cantie, O I 
An ye had seen what I hae seen. 

On the braes of Killiecrankie, O ! 
I fought at land, I fought at sea ; 

At hame I fought my auntie, O ! 
But I met the Devil and Dundee. 

On the braes o' Killiecrankie, O ! 
The bauld Pitcur fell in a furr. 

And Clavers trot a clankie, 01 
Or I had fed an Atholegled, 

On the braes of Killiecrankie, O ! 

THENIEL MENZIE'S BONNIE MARY. 

Tune—" The Ruffian's Rant." 
Ix coming by the brig o" Dvc, 

At Darlet we a blink did"tarry ; 
As day was dawin' in the sky, 

Wc drank a. health to bonnie Mary. 



BCKKS" POETICAL W0H 
CnORDS. 

Theniel Menzie's bonnie Mary 



Theniel Menzie's bonnie Mary; 

Charlie Gn-^oi' tint his plaidic, 
Kissiu' Theniel's bonnie Mary. 
?r e'en sac bright.- her brow sac white, 
Her hatter lucks as brown's a berry; 



I swear and vow by moon and stars, 
And sun that shines so early, 

If I had twenty thousand lives, 
I'd die as aft for Charlie. 



Fo 



Theniel's bonnie Ma: 



FRAE THE FRIENDS AND LAND I LOVE. 

Time— 1 - Carron Side." 
FfiAE'the friends and land I love, 

Driv'n by fortune's felly spite, 
Frae my best belov'd I rove. 

Never niair to taste delight ! 
Never inair maun hope to find 

Ease frae toil, relief frae care: 
"When remembrance racks the mind, 

Pleasures but unveil despair. 
Brightest climes shall mirk appear, 

Desert ilka blooming shore, 
Till the fates nae mair severe, 

Friendship, love, and peace restore ; 
Till Revenge, wi' laurell'd head, 

Bring our banish'd hame again ; 
And ilka loyal bonnie lad 

Cross the seas and win his aim 

THE TITHE R MORN. 
Tune-"T6a, Highland air. 
The tithcr morn, when I, forlorn 

Aneath an aik sat moaning, 
I did na trow, I'd see my jo, 

Beside me, gin the gloaming- 
Bur he sae tri.ir. hi]) o'er the rig, 

And dawtinglv did cheer me, 
"When I. what reck, did least expec', 

To see my lad so near me. 

JEIis bonnet he, a thought ajee, 

Cock'd sprush when first he clasp'd me! 
And I. I wat, wi' faintness grat, 

While in his grins he prcsYd me. 
Deil tak the war ! I late and air, 

Hae wish'd since Jock departed ; 
Bat iii'v.- as glad I'm wi' my lad, 

As short syne broken-hearted. 
Fu' aft at e'en wi" dancing keen, 

When a" were blythe and merry, 
I car'dna bv. sae sad was I, 

In absence of my dearie. 
But, praise be blest, my mind's at rest, 

I'm happy wi' my Johnny: 
At kirk and fair, I'se aye be there. 

And be as canty's ony. 

COME BOAT ME O'ER TO CHARLIE. 

Tune- 1 - O'er the water to Charlie." 
Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er, 

Come boat me o'er to Charlie; 
I'll gie John Ross anither bawbee, 

To boat me o'er to Charlie. 

CHORUS. 

We'll o'er the water and o'er the sea, 

"We'll o'er the water to Charlie : 
Come weal, come woe. we'll gather and go 

And live or die wi' Charlie. 

1 lo'e weel my Charlie's name, 

Tho' some there be abhor him : 
But oh, to see auld Nick gaun name. 

And Charlie's faes before- him ! 



IT IS NA, JEAN, THY BONNIE FACE. 

Tune— '' The Maid's Complaint." 
It is na, Jean, thy bonnie face 

Nor shape that I admire, 
Altho' thy beauty and thy grace 

Might weel awake desire" 
Something, in ilka part o" thee, 

To praise, to love. I find; 
But dear as is thv form to me, 

Still dearer is t'hy mind. 

Nae mair ungen'rous wish I hae, 

Nor stronger in my breast, 
Thau if I canna mak* thee sae, 

At least to see the blest. 
Content am I, if Heaven shall give 

But happiness to thee: 
And as wi' thee I'd wish to live, 

For thee I'd bear to dee. 



NITHSD ALE'S WELCOME HOME. 
The noble Maxwell's and their powers 

Are coming o'er the Border, 
And they'll gae bigg Terreagles towers, 

And set them a' in order. 
And they declare Terreagles fair, 

For their above they chuse it ; 
There's nae a heart in a' the land, 

But's lighter at the news o't. 

Tho' stars in skies may disappear, 
And angry tempests gather; 

The happy hour may soon be near, 
Thar brine's us pleasant weather : 

The weary night o' care and grief 
May hae a joyful morrow: 

So dawning day has brought relief- 
Fare weel our night o' sorrow! 



MY COLLIER LADDIE. 
Tune— "The Collier Laddie." 
" Where live ye, mv bonnie lass ? 

And tell me what "they ca' ye r" 
"Mv name." she savs. --is Mistress Jean, 

And I follow the Collier Laddie." 
"My name,'' she says "is Mistress Jean, 

And I follow the Collier Laddie." 
"Oh see you not yon hills and dales. 

The sun shines on sae brawlie ! 
They a' are mine, and the}' shall be thine, 

Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie : 
They a' are mine, and they shall be thine, 

Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. 

" Ye shall gang in gay attire, 

"Weel buskit up sae gaudy ; 
And ane to wait on every hand, 

Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie. 
And ane to wait on every hand : 

Gin ye'll leave your Collier Laddie." 

"Tho' ye had a' the sun shines on. 

And the earth conceals sae lowly: 
I wad turn my back on you and it a', 

And embrace my Collier Laddie ; 
I wad turn my back on you and it a", 

And embrace my Collier Laddie. 
" I can win my five pennies in a dav, 

And spent at night fu' brawlie ; 
And make my bed in the Collier's nettk, 

And lie down wi' my Collier Laddie. 
And make my bed in the Collier's neuk, 

And lie down wi" my Collier Laddie. . 



YOUNG JAMIE, PItlDE OF A' THE PLAIN. 



105 



"Lnvc for Iuve is the baTgain for me, 
Tho* the wee cot-hocise should baud me ; 

And the world before me to win my bread, 
And fair fa" my Collier Laddie ; 

And the world before me to win my bread, 
And fair fa' my Collier Laddie/' 



AS I WAS A-WANDERING. 
Tune— "Rinn Mondial mo Mhealladh." 
As I was a-wandering one midsummer e'enin', 
The pipers and youngsters were making their 
game ; 
Amang them I spied my faithless fause lover, 
Which bled a' the wounds o' my dolour again. 

Weel, since he has left me, my pleasure go wi' 
him ; 

I may be distressed, but I winna complain; 
I flatter my fancy I may get anither, 

My heart it shall never be broken for ane. 



Had I no got greetin', my heart wad a broken, 
For oh ! love forsaken's a tormenting pain. 

Although he has left me for greed o' the siller. 

I dinna envy him the gains he can win ; 
I rather wad bear a' the lade of my sorrow, 

Than ever hae acted sae faithless to him. 



YE JACOBITES BY NAME. 

Time—'-'-Ye Jacobites by name." 
Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give an ear; 
Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear"; 
Ye Jacobites by name, 
Your fautes I will proclaim. 
Your doctrines I maun blame— 
You shall hear. 

What is right and what is wrang, by the law, by 
the law ? 
What is right and what is wrang, by the law? 
What is right and what is wrang ? 
A short sword and a lang, 
A weak arm and a Strang 
For to draw. 

What makes heroic strife, fam'd afar, fam'd afar? 
What makes heroic strife, fam'd afar ? • 
What makes heroic strife ? 
To whet th' assassin's knife, 
Or hunt a parent's life 
WI' bluidie war. 

Then let your schemes alone, in the state, in the 
state ; 
Then let your schemes alone, in the state; 
Then let your schemes alone, 
Adore the rising sun, 
And leave a man undone 
To his fate. 



LADY MAEY ANN. 

Tune—" Craigton's growing." 

On Lady Mary Ann looked o'er the castle wa' ; 

She saw three bonnie boys playing at the ba'; 

The youngest he was the floweT amang them a'— 

My bonnie laddie's young, but he's growin' yet. 
Oh father ! oh father ! an ye think it fit, 
We'll send him a year to the college vet: 
We'll send a green ribbon round about his hat, 

And that will let them ken he's to marry yet! 
Lady Mary Ann was a flower i' the dew, 
Sweet was its smell and bonnie was its hue; 
And the Ianger it blossom'd the sweeter it grew; 

For the lily in the bud will be bonnier yet, 



Young Charlie Cochrane was the sprout of an 

aik; 
Bonnie and bloomin' and straught was it smake : 
The sun took delight to shine for its sake, 
And it will be the brag o' the forest yet. 

The simmer is gane when the leaves they are 

green, 
And the days are awa' that we hae seen: 

But far better days I trust will come again, 
For my bonnie laddie's young, but he's gruwin' 
yet. 

Out oyer the forth. 

Tune—" Charlie Gordon's welcome name. - ' 
Out over the Forth I looked to the north, 

But what is the north and its Highlands tome? 
The south nor the east gie ease to my breast, 

The far foreign land, or the wild-rolling sea. 
But I look to the west, when I gae to rest, 

That happy my dreams and my slumbers may 
be; 
For far in the west lives he I lo'e best, 

The lad that is dear to my baby and me. 



THE CARLES 0' DYSART. 

Up wi' the carles o' Dysart, 
And the lads o' Buckhaven, 

And the kimmers o' Largo, 
And the lasses o' Leven, 

CHORUS. 

Hey, ca' through, ca' through, 

For we hae meikle ado : 
Hey, ca' through, ca' through, 
For we hae meikle ado. 
"We hae tales to tell, 

And we hae sangs to sing; 
We hae pennies to spend. 

And Ave hae pints to bring. 
We'll live a' our days, 

And them that come behhf, 
Let them do the like, 
And spend the gear they win. 
Hey, ca' through, ca' through, 

For we hae meikle ado ; 
Hey, ca' through, ca' through, 
For we hae meikle ado. 



LADY ONLIE. 
Tune— "The Ruffian's Rant." 
A' the lads o' Thornie-bank, 

When they gae to the shore o' Bucky, 
Thev'U step in and tak a pint 
Wi' Lady Onlie, honest Lucky ! 

chorus. 
Lady Onlie, honest Luck}-, 

Brews good ale at shore o' Bucky, 
I wish her sale for her gude ale. 

The best on a* the shore o' Bucky. 

Her house sae Men, her curch sae clean, 

I wat she is a dainty chucky ; 

And cheerlie blinks the ingle-gleed 

Of Lady Onlie, honest Lucky; 

Lady* Onlie, honest Lucky, 

Brews good ale at shores o' Bucky, 
I wish her sale of her gude ale, 
The best on a' the shore of Bucky 



YOUNG JAMIE, PRIDE OF A' THE PLAIN. 
Tune— "The carlin o' the glen." 
Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain, 
Sae gallant and sae gay a swain ; 
Through a' our lasses he did rove, 
And reign'd resistless king of love : 



But now wi' sighs and starting tears, 
He strays aiming the woods and briers ; 
Or in the glens and rocky caves 
He sad, complaining, dowie raves : 
" I wha sae late did range and rove, 
And changed with every moon my love, 
I little thought the time was near, 
Repentance I should buy sae dear : 
The slighted maids my torment sec, 
And laugh at a' the pangs I dree ; 
While she, my cruel, scornfu' fair, 
Forbids me e'er to see her mair !" 

JENNY'S A WAT, POOR BODY. 
Tune— 1 '- Coming through the Rye." 
Coming through the rye, poor body, 

Coming through the rye, 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 
Coming through the rye, 
Jenny's a' wat, poor body, 

Jenny's seldom dry; 
She draiglet a' her petticoatie, 
Coming through the rye. 

Gin a body meet a body 

Coming through the rye, 
Gin a body kiss a body, 

Need a body cry? 
Gin a body meet a body 

Comingthrough the glen. 
Gin a body kiss a body. 

Need the world ken? 

THE CARDIN O'T. 

Time—" Salt fish and dumplins." 
I coft a stane o" haslock woo'. 

To make a coab'to Johnny o't; 
For Johnny is ray only jo, 
I lo'e him best of ony yet. 

chorus. 
The cardin' o't, the spinnin' o't, 

The warpin' o't, the winnin' o't ; 
When ilka ell cost me a groat, 
The tailor staw the linin' o't. 
For though his locks be lyart gray, 

And though his brow be held aooon ; 
Yet. I hae seen him on a day, 
The pride of a' the parishen, 

TO THEE, LOV'D NITII. 
To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains. 

Where late wi' careless thought I rang'il, 
Though prest wi' care and sunk in woe, 

To thee I bring a heart unchang'd. 
I love thee, Nith, thy banks and braes, 

Tho' mem'ry there my bosom tear ; 
For there he rov'd that brake my heart, 

Yet to that heart, ah ! still how dear I 

SAE FAR AWAY. 
Tune—" Dalkeith Maiden Bridge." 
On. sad and heavy should I part 

But for her sake sae far awa' ; 
Unknowing what my way may thwart, 

My native land sac far awa'. 
Thou that of a' things Maker art. 

That form'd this Fair sae far awa', 
Gie body strength, and I'll ne'er start 

At this my way sae far awa'. 

How true is love to pure desert, 

So love to her sae far awa': 
And nocht can heal my bosom's smart, 

While, oh! she is sae far awa'. 
Nane other love, nane other dart, 

I feel but her's, sae far awa' : 
But fairer never touch'd a heart, 

Than her's, the Fair sae far awa'. 



BJUNS FOEflCAL WORKS. 

WAE IS MY HEART. 
Tune—" Wae is my heart." 



Wae is my heart, and the tear's in my e'e ; 
Lang, laug, joy's been a stranger to me: 
Forsaken and friendless, my burden I bear. 
And the sweet voice o' pity ne'er sounds ii 



my 



Love, thou hast pleasures, and deep hae I 

loved: 
Love, thou hast sorrows, and sair hae I proved ; 
But this bruised heart that now bleeds in my 

breast, 
I can feel by its throbbings will soon be at rest. 
Oh, if I were happy, where happy I hae been ! 
Down by yon stream, and yon bonnie castle - 

green ; 
For there he is wand'ring, and musing on rac, 
"Wha wad soon dry the tear frae Phillis's e'e. 

AMANG THE TREES. 
Tune—" The King of France, he rade a Race." 
Amang the trees, where humming bees 

At buds and flowers were hinging, O ! 
Auld Caledon drew out her drone, 

And to her pipe was singing, O ! 
'Twas pibroch, sang, strathspey, or reels, 

She dirl'd them aff fu' clearly, O ! 
When there cam a yell o' foreign srmeels, 

That dang her tapsalteerie, O ! 
Their capon craws and queer ha ha's, 

They made our lugs grow eerie, O ! 
The hungry byke did scrape and pike 

Till we were wae and weary, O ! 
But a royal ghaist, wha ance was cased 

A prisoner aughteen year awa', 
He fired a fiddler in the North 

That dang them tapsalteerie, O ! 

THE HIGHLAND LADDIE. 

Tune— "If thon'lt play me fair play." 
" The bonniest lad that e'er I saw, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; 
Wore a plaid, and was fu' braw, 

Bonnie Highland laddie. 
On his head a bonnet blue, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; 
His loyal heart was firm and true, 

Bonnie Highland laddie." 
" Trumpets sound, and cannons roar, 

Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie : 
And a' the hills wi' echoes roar, 

Bonnie Lowland lassie. 
Glorv, honour, now invite, 

Bonnie lassie, Lowland lassie, 
For freedom and my king to fight, 

Bonnie Lowland lassie." 
" The sun a backward coarse shall take, 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie. 
Ere aught thv manly courage shake, 

Bonnie Highland laddie, 
Go ! for vourself procure renown. 

Bonnie laddie, Highland laddie ; 
And for your lawful king, his crown, 

Bonnie' Highland laddie." 

BANNOCKS 0' BARLEY. 

Tune— "The Killogie." 

Bannocks o' bear meal, 

Bannocks o' barley : 
Here's to the Highlandrnan's 

Bannocks o' barley. 
Wha in a brulzie 

Will first cry a parley ? 
Never the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley. 



Bannocks o' bear meal. 

Bannocks o' barley ; 
Here's to the land wi' 

Tlie bannocks o' barley. 
Wha in hiswae-days 

Were loyal to Charlie ? 
Wha but the lads wi' 

The bannocks o' barley. 

EOBIN SHUBE IN HAIEST. 

CHORUS. 

Robin shore in hairst, 
I shore wi' him ; 

Ficnt aheuk had I, 
Yet 1 stack by him. 
I gaed np to Dnnse 

To warp a web o' plaiden; 
At bis daddie's yett. 

Wha met me but Robin? 
Was na Eobin banld, 

Though I was a cottar, 
Play'd me sic a trick, 

And me the elder's dochter! 

Eobhi promised me * 

A' my winter vittle ; 
Fient haet he had but three 

Goose feathers and a whittle. 



SWEETEST MAY. 

Sweetest May. let love inspire thee ; 
Take a heart which he desires thee ; 
As thy constant slave regard it; 
For its faith and truth reward it. 
Proof o' shot to birth or money, 
Not the wealthie but the boniiie ; 
Not high-born, but noble-minded, 
In love's silken band can bind it 

THE LASS OY ECCLEFECHAN. 
Tune—" Jack}- Latin." 
"Oh, gat me, oh, gat ye me, 

Oh, gat ye me wi' naething? 
Eock and reel and spinning-wheel, 

A mickle quarter basin. 
Bye attour. my gutcher has 

A heich house and a laigh ane, 
A' forbye my bonnie sel'. 

The lass of Ecclefechan." 

11 Oh, hand your tongue now, Luckie Laing, 

Oh, hand your tongue and jauner; 
I held the gate till you I met, 

Syne I began to wonder : 
I tint my whistle and my sang, 

I tint my peace and pleasure : 
But your green graff, now. Luckie Laing, 

"Wad airt me to my treasure." 

HERE'S A BOTTLE AND AN HONEST 
FBIEND. 

Here's a bottle and an honest friend : 

Wha wad ye wish for mair. mon ? 
Wha kens, before his life may end, 

What his share may be o' care, man ? 
Then catch the moments as they fly, 

And use them as ye ought, man:— 
Believe me, happiness is shy, 

And comes na aye when sought, man. 

ON A PLOUGHMAN. 
As I was a-wand'ring ane morning in sprincr, 
I heard a young ploughman sae sweetly to 

sing; 
And as lie was singing, these words he did sav. 
There's nae life like the plonghman's in the 

month o' sweet May. 



ON A IIENTECKED COUNTRY SQUIRE. 107 

The lav'rock in the morning she'll rise frae her 



And mount to the air wi' the dew on her breast, 
And wi' the merry ploughman she'll whistle and 

sing, "' 
And at night she'll return to her nest back 

again. 

THE WEAEY PUND 0' TOW. 
Tune— "The weary pond o' tow." 
The weary pund, the weary pund, 

The weary pund o' tow ; 
I think my wife will end her life, 

Before she spin her tow. 

I bought my wife a stane o' lint, 

As gude as e'er did grow; 
And a' that she has made o' that, 

Is ae poor pund o' tow. 

There sat a bottle in a bole, 

Beyont the ingle low, 
And aye she took the tither souk, 

To drouk the stoune tow. 

Quoth I. " For shame, ye dirtv dame, 

Gae spin your tap o' tow ! " " 
She took the rock, and wi a knock 

She brak it o'er my pow. 
At last her feet— I sang to see't— 

Gaed foremost o'er the knowe ; 
And or I wad anither jaud, 

I'll wallop in a tow. 



THE LADDIES BY THE BANKS O' NITH.237 

AN ELECTION BALLAD. 

Tune— "Up and waur them a'." 

The laddies by the banks o' Nith 
Wad trust his Grace wi' a', Jamie : 

But he'll sair them as he sair'd the king- 
Turn tail and rin awa', Jamie. 

CHORUS. 

Up and waur them a', Jamie, 

Up and waur them a"; 
Tha Johnstons hae the guidin' o't, 
Ye turncoat Whigs, awa'. 
The day he stude his country's friend, 
Or gied her faes a claw. Jamie, 
ir man a blessin' wan, 
7 the Duke ne'er saw, Jamie. 
But wha is he, his country's boast ? 
Like him there is na twa. Jamie ; 
There's no a callant tents the kye, 
But kens o' Westerha". Jamie. 

To end the wark, here's Whistlebirck, 
Lang mav his whistle blaw. Jamie : 

And Maxwell true o' sterling blue. 
And we'll be Johnstons a', Jamie. 

OX CAPTAIN FRANCIS GEOSE,23S 

THE CELEBRATED ANTIQUARIAN. 

The Devil got notice that Grose was a-dying, 
So whip 1 at the summons old Satan came flying. 
But when he approached where poor Francis 

lay moaning, 
And saw each bed-post with its burden a- 

groaning, 
Astonished, confounded, cried Satan, "By G— , 
I'll want 'im ere I take such a damnable* load!'* 



ON A HENPECKED COUNTEY SQUIBE. 
O death, hadst thou but spared his life, 

Whom we this day lament ! 
We freely wad exchanged the wife, 

And a' been weel content. 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Even as he is, cauld in his graff, 

The swap we yet will do't; 
Tak thou the caVlin's carcase aff, 

Thou'bc u r i_t l he saai to boot. 

. 9 

ANOTHER OX HIS WIDOW. 

One Queen Artemisa, as old stories tell, 

When deprived of her husband she loved so 

well, " 
In respect for the love and affection he'd show'd 

her, 
!She reduced him to dust, and she drank off the 

powder. 

15 nt Queen Xetherplace, of a different com- 
plexion 

When call'd on to order the funeral direction. 

Would have eat her dead lord, on a slender 
pretence, 

Not to show her respect, but— to save the ex- 
pense. 

OX ELPIIIXSTOXE'S TRAXSLATIOX OF 

MARTIAL'S EPIGRAMS. 
O thou whom Poetry abhors, 
Whom Prose has turned out of doors ! 
Heardst thou that groan— proceed no further, 
'Twas lanreh'd Martial roaring murder. 

OX MISS J. SCOTT OF AYR. 
Oh, had each Scot of ancient times, 

Been Jeanie Scot, as thou art; 
The bravest heart on English ground, 

Had yielded like a coward. 

OX AX ILLITERATE GEXTLEMAX, 

WHO HAD A FIXE LIBRARY. 

Free through the leaves, ye maggots, make 
your windings ; 

But for the owner's sake, oh, spare the bind- 
ings! 

WRITTEN 

UNDER TOE PICTURE OK THE CELEBRATED MISS 
BURN3.239 

Cease, ye prudes, your envious railings, 
Lovely Burns has charms— confess : 

TiMie.it is. she had one failing- 
Had a woman ever less ? 

WRITTEN OX A PANE OF GLASS 

IX THE INN AT MOFFAT. 210 

Ask why God made the gem so small, 

And why so hughe the granite? 
BccausCGod meant mankind should set 
The higher value on it. 

F R A G M E X T.241 

The black-headed eagle 

As keen as a beagle. 
He hunted owrc height and owre howe, 

But fell in a trap 

On the braes o' Gemappes, 
E'en let him come out as he dowe. 

ON INCIVILITY SHOWN HIM AT INVE- 
RARY.2J2 

Whoe'er he be that sojourns here. 

I pity much his case, 
Unless he come to wait upon 

The Lord their God, his Grace. 

There's naething here but Highland pride, 
And Highland scab and hunger ; 

If Providence has sent me here, 
'Twas surely in his anger. 



Kemble, thou cur'st my unbelief, 

Of Moses and his rod; 
At Yarico's sweet notes of grief, 
The rock with tears had fiow'd. 

L I X E S 

WRITTEN ON A PEW IN THE KIRK OF LAMINGTON, 
IN CLYDESDALE. 

A cauld, cauld kirk, and in't but few, 
A caulder minister never spak: 



[TIE SOLEMX LEAGUE AXD COY. 
NAMT.243 

The Solemn League and Covenant 
Cost Scotland blood— cost Scotland tears ; 

But it seal'd freedom's sacred cause— 
If thou'rt a slave, indulge thy sneers. 



ON A CERTAIX PARSOX'S LOOKS, 
That there is falsehood in his looks 

I must and will deny ; 
Thev sav their master is a knave— 
And sure they do not lie. 



What dost thou in that mansion fair? 

Flit, Galloway, and find 
Some narrow, dirty, dungeon cave, 

The picture of thy mind ! 

OX THE SAME. 
Xo Stewart art thou, Galloway, 

The Stewarts all were brave; 
lie-sides, the Stewarts were but fools, 

Xot one of them a knave. 

OX THE SAME. 
B«ight ran thy line, Galloway ! 



TO THE SAME. 

ON THE AUTHOR BEING THREATENED WITH HIS 
RESENTMENT. 

Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway, 



1 a 



In quiet let me live : 

ask no kindness at thy hand, 

For thou hast none to give. 



OX AX EMPTY FELLOW, 

WHO IN COMPANY ENGROSSED THE CONVERSATION 
WITH AN ACCOUNT OF HIS GREAT CONNEXIONS. 

No more of your titled acquaintances boast, 
And what nobles and gentles you've seen; 

An insect is still but an insect at most, 
Tho' it crawl on the curl of a Queen ! 

LINES WRITTEN ON A PANE OF GLASS, 

ON THE OCCASION OF A NATIONAL THANKSGIVING 
FOR A NAVAL VICTORY. 

Ye hypocrites ! are these your pranks?— 
To murder men and gie God thanks! 
For shame! gie o'er, proceed no further — 
God won't accept your thanks for murther! 



ON A SCHOOLMASTER 
THE TRUE LOYAL NATIVES.-'" 



Ye true ''Loyal Native?," attend to my song; 
In uproar and riot rejoice the night long; 
From envy and hatred your corps is exempt; 
But where is your shield from the darts of con- 
tempt 'i 

INSCPJPTION ON A GOBLET 

BELONGING TO ME. SYME. 

There's death in the cup— sae beware: 
Nay, more, there is danger in touching: 

But wha can avoid the fell snare ? 
The man and his wine's sae bewitching! 

THE CREED OF POVERTY.^ 
In politics if thou would'st mix, 

And mean thy fortunes be ; 
Bear this in mind, be deaf and blind, 

Let great folks liear and see. 

LINES 

w KITTEN EXTEMPORE IS A LADY'S rOCKET-BOOK. 

Grant me, indulgent Heaven! that I may live 
To see the miscreants feel the pains they give ; 
I »<jal freedom's sacred treasures fr 
Till slave and despot be but things 



■ as air. 



ich were. 



EPISTLE TO JOHN TAYLORS 
With Pegasus upon a day, 

Apollo weary flying. 
Through frosty hills the journey lay, 

On foot the way was plying. 

Poor slip-shod giddy Pegasus 

Was but a sorry walker; 
To Yulcan then Apollo goes, 

To get a frosty calker. 
Obliging Vulcan fell to work, 

Threw by his coat and bonnet. 
And did Sol's business in a crack.; 

Sol paid him with a sonnet. 

Ye Vulcan's sons of Waulockhead, 

Pity my sad disaster; 
My Pegasus is poorly shod— 

I'll pay you like my master. 

TO MISS FONTENELLE, 

ON SEEING HER IN A FAVOURITE CHARACTER. 

Sweet naivete of feature, 
Simple, wild, enchanting elf, 



Not 
Tho 



i thee, 
art 



nit tli 
ctii: 



Were thou awkward, stiff, affected, 
.Spurning nature, torturing art, 

Loves and graces all rejected, 
Then indeed thou d'st act a part. 

E XCISEME N U N I V E R S A L. 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW. "-t" 

Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this sneering 

'Gainst poor excisemen? give the cause a hear- 
ing. 

What are your landlords' rent-rolls ?— taxing 
ledgers : 

What uremic rs? what even monarchs? might v 
gaugers : 

_^ay, what are priests, those seeming godly wise 
men? 

ON JESSY LEWARS.24S 
Talk not to me of savages 

From Afrie.'s burning sun, 
No savage e'er could rend my heart, 

As. Jessy, thou hast done. 



But Jessy's lovely hand in mine, 

A mutual faith to plight. 
Not even to view the heavenly choir 

Would be so blest a sight. 

TOAST TO THE SAME .^ 
Fill me with the rosy wine, 
Call a toast— a toast divine ; 
Give the Poet's darling flame, 
Lovely Jessy be the name : 
Then thou mayest freelv boa-t 
Thou hast given a peerless toast. 

EPITAPH ON THE SAME.250 

Say, sages, what's the charm on earth 

Can turn death's dart aside ? 
It is not purity and worth, 

Else Jessy had not died. 

TO THE SAME. 
But rare.lv seen since Nature's birth, 

The natives of the sky; 
Yet still one seraph's left on ear:h. 

For Jessy did not die. 

GRACES BEFORE MEAT. 
Some hae meat and canna eat, 

And some would eat that want it ; 
But we hae meat, and we can eat, 

Sae let the Lord be thankit. 

Oh Thou, in whom we live and move, 

Who mad'st the sea and shore; 
Thy goodness constantly we prove, 

And grateful would adore. 
And if it please thee, Pow'r above, 

Still grant us, with such store. 
The friend we trust, the fair we love, 

And we desire no more. 

ON A HENPECKD COUNTRY SQUIRE. 

As father Adam first was fool'd, 
A ease that's still too common, 

Here lies a man a woman rul'd— 
The devil rul'd the woman. 

ON JOHN DOVE, 
innkeeper, m a u c h l I n e. 
Here lies Johnny Pidgeon ; 
What was his religion 'i 

Wha e'er desires to ken, 
To some other waiT 
Maun follow the carl, 
For here Johnny Pidgeon had mine! 

Strong ale was ablution, 
Small beer, persecution, 

A dram was memento mori ; 
But a full flowing bowl 
Was the joy of his soul, 

And port'was celestial glory. 

N W A T. 

Sic a reptile Avas Wat, 

Sic a miscreant slave. 
That the very worms damn'd him, 

When laid in his grave. 
" In his flesh there's a famine," 

A starv'd reptile cries ; 
"And his heart i- rank Boison.'' 

Another replies. 

ON A SCHOOL M A S T E E. 

in cleish parish, fifeshire. 
Here lie Willie Michie's banes, 
Oh Satan ! when ye tak him, 

~* f your weans ; 



s he'll ma] 



em! 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS 
ON" MR. W. CRUIKSHANKS. 

Honest Will's to Heaven gane, 



And inony shall lament him ; 
His faults they a in Latin lay, 
In English nane e'er keut them. 

FOR WILLIAM NICOL. 
Ye maggots, feed on Nicol's brain, 

For few sic feasts you've gotten ; 
You've got a prize o" Willie's heart, 

For deil a bit o't's rotten. 

OX w . 



Stop thief ! dame Nature cried to Death, 
As Willie drew his latest breath; 
You have my choicest model ta'eu, 
How shall I make a fool again V 

ON THE SAME. 
Rest gently, turf, upon his breast, 

His chicken heart's so tender;— 
Hut rear huge castles on his head, 

His skull will prop them under. 

ON GABRIEL RICHARDSON, 

BREWER, DUMFRIES. 

Here Brewer Gabriel's fire's extinct, 
And empty all his barrels; 

He's blest— if as he brew'd the drink- 
In upright, honest morals. 

ON JOHN B USHB Y, 

WRITER, DUMFRIES. 

IlEREjlies John Bushby, honest man! 
Cheat him, Devil, if you can. 



ON THE POET'S DAUGHTER. 
Here lies a rose, a budding rose, 

Blasted before its bloom, 
AVhose innocence did sweets disclose 

Beyond that flower's perfume. 

To those who for her loss are griev'd, 

This consolation's given- 
She's from a world of woe rcliev'd, 
And blooms a rose in heaven. 



ON A PICTURE 

REPRESENTING JACOB'S DREAM. 

Dear , I'll gie you some advice, 

You'll tak it no uncivil : 
You shouldna paint at angels mair, 

But try and paint the devil. 
To paint an angel's kittle wark, 

Wi' anld Nick there's less danger ; 
You'll easy draw a wrel-kent face, 

But no sae weel a stranger. 

THE LA.SS O' BALLOCHMYLE. 

Tune— "Miss Forbes' Farewell to Banff." 
'Twas even— the dewy fields were green, 

On every blade the pearlies hang; 
The zephyr wanton'd round the bean, 

And bore its fragrant sweets alang: 
Ik ev'ry glen the mavis sang. 

All nature list'ning seem'd the while, 
Except where greenwood echoes rang, 

Amang the braes o' Ballochmyle. 
With careless step I onward stray'd, 

Mv heart rejoie'd in nature'e joy, 
When. imiMi;- in a b-nely gl;;d<\ 

A maiden fair I ehauc'u to sj y ; 



Perfection whisper'd, passing by. 

Behold the lass o' BaUochmyfe ! 
Fair is the morn in flow'ry May, 

And sweet is night in autumn mild; 
When roving thro' the garden gay, 

Or wand'ring in the lonely wild : 
But woman, Nature's darling child ! 

There all her charms she does coinpil ; 
Ev'n there her other works are foil'd. 

By the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 
Oh, had she been a country maid, 

And I the happy country swain! 
Tho' shelter'd in the lowest shed 

That ever rose on Scotland's plain, 
Thro' weary winter's wind and rain ; 

With joy, with rapture, I would toil ; 
And nightly to my bosom strain 

The bonnie lassV Ballochmyle. 
Then pride might climb the slipp'ry steep, 

Where fame and honours lofty shine ; 
And thirst of gold might tempt the deep, 

Or downward seek the Indian mine; 
Give me the cot below the pine, 

To tend the flocks, or till the soil, 
And ev'ry day have joys divine 

With the bonnie lass o' Ballochmyle. 



ON A YOUNG LADY.2M 

RESIDING «N THE BANKS OF THE SMALL RIVER 
DEVON, IN CLACKMANNANSHIRE, BUT WHOSE 
INFANT TEARS WERE SPENT IN AYRSHIRE. 

Air— "The Pretty Milkmaid." 
How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding 



\- pleas: 
Dcvoi 



on. 
With green-spreading bushes, and flowers 
blooming fair ! 
But the bonniest flower on the banks of the 
Devon, 
Was once a sweet bud on the braes of the Ayr. 
Mild be the sun on this sweet blushing flower. 
In the gay rosy morn as it bathes in the (Kw I 



Oh, spare the dear blossom, ye orient brecze:- 

With chill hoary wing as ye usher the dawn 
And far be thou distant, thou reptile that seizest 

The verdure and pride of the garden ami law 
Let Bourbon exult in his gay gilded lilies. 

And England triumphant display her proud 
rose ; 
A fairer than either adorns the green valleys 

Where Devon, sweet Devon, mcanderingflows, 



C A S T L E-G O R D O N. 

Tune— "Morag.'' 
Streams that glide in orient plains 
Never bound by winter's chains ; 
Glowing here on golden sands, 
There commix'd with foulest stains 
From Tyranny's empurpled bands : 
These, their richly-gleaming waves, 
I leave to tyrants and their slaves; 
Give me the stream that sweetly laves 

The banks by Castle-Gordon. 
Spicy forests, ever gay. 
Shading from the burning ray 
Hapless wretches sold to toil, 
Or the ruthless native's way, 
Bent on slaughter, blood, and spoil: 
Woods that ever verdant wave, 
I leave the tyrant and the slave : 
(Jive me the proves that lofty brave 
The storms, by Castle-Gurdou. 



PROLOGUE. 



Wildly here, without control, 

Nature reigns and rules the whole ; 

In that sober, pensive mood, 

Dearest to the feeling soul. 

She plants the forest, pours the flood-, 

Life's poor day I'll musing rave, 

And find at night a sheltering cave, 

Where waters flow and wild woods wave, 

By bonnie Castle-Gordou. 

FAEEWELL TO AYRSHIRE. 

Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, 

Scenes that former thoughts renew, 
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, 

Now a sad and last adieu ! 
Bonnie Doon, sae sweet at gloomin', 

Fare thee weel. before I gang! 
Bonnie Doon, whare, early roamin', 

First 1 weaved the rustic sang! 
Bowers, adieu! whare love, decoying, 

First enthrallM this heart o' mine ! 
There the saftest sweets enjoying— 

Sweets that mem'ry ne'er shall tyne 

Friends, so near my bosom ever, 

Ye haerender'd moments dear, 
But, alas ! when forced to sever, 

Then the stroke, oh, how severe ! 
Friends! that parting tear reserve it, 

Though 'tis doubly dear to me ! 
Could I think I did deserve it. 

How much happier would 1 be! 

Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure. 
Scenes that former thoughts renew, 

Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure, 
Now a last and sad adieu! 

F R AGMENT 



False flatterer. Hope away ! 
Nor think to lure us as in days of yore : 

We solemnise this sorrowing natal day, 
To prove our loyal truth— we can no more ; 

And owing Heaven's mysterious sway, 
Submissive, low, adore. 

Ye honour' d mighty dead! 
Who nobly perish'd in the glorious cause, 
Your King, vour country, and tier Laws ! 

From great Dundee who, smiling, Victory 
led, 
And fell a martyr in her arms, 
(What breast of northern ice but warms!) 
Tii bold Ralmerinn's undying name. 
Whose soul of tire, lighted at Heaven's high 
flame, 
Deserves the proudest wreath departed heroes 
claim. 

Not unrevenged your fate shall be, 

It only lags the fatal hour; 
Your blood shall withiucessant cry. 

Awake at last th' unspairing power : 
As from the cliff, with thundering course, 

The snowy ruin smokes along, 
With doubling speed and gathering force, 
Till deep it crashing whelms the cottage in the 

vale, 



Bo vengeance 



BRUCE TO HIS TROOPS, 

ON THE EVE OF THE BATTLE OF BANNOCKBUfitf, 

[As originally written by Bums. J 
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace bled, 
Scots, wham Bruce has afteu led ; 
Welcome to your gofy bed, 
Or to vjctoiie ! 



Now's the day and now's the hour, 
Sec the front o' battle lower; 
See approach proud Edward's power- 
Chains and siaverie ! 
Wha will be a traitor-knave ? 
Wha can fill a coward's grave V 
Wha sae base as be a slave ? 

Let him turn and flee ! 
Wha for Scotland's king and law 
Freedom's sword will strongly draw, 
Free-man stand, or Free-man* fa', 

Let him follow me ! 
By oppression's woes and pains! 
By your sons in servile chains : 
We will drain our dearest veins, 
But they shall be free ! 

Lay the proud usurpers low! 
Tyrants fall in every foe ! 
Liberty's in everv blow ! 
Let nsDO, or DIE! 



R E M O R S E. 

FROM THE POET'S COMMONPLACE-BOOK. 

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peace, 
That press the soul, or wring the mind with an- 
guish, 
Beyond comparison the worst are those 
That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 
In every other circumstance, the mind 
Has this to say—" It was no deed of mine!" 
But when to all the evil of misfortune 
This sting is added-" Blame thy foolish self!" 
Or worser still, the pangs of keen remorse ; 
The torturing, gnawing consciousness of guilt— 
Of guilt, perhaps, where we've involved others ; 
The young, the innocent, who fondly loved us, 
Nay," more, that very love their cause of ruin ! 
Oh" burning hell! in all thy store of torments, 
There's not a keener lash ! 
Lives there a man so firm, who, while his heart 
Feels all the bitter horrors of his crime, 
Can reason down its agonising throbs : 
And, after proper purpose of amendment, 
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace ? 
Oh, happy! happy! enviable man ! 
Oh, glorious magnanimity of soul! 

PROLOGUE 

FOR ME. SUTHERLAND'S BENEFIT-NIGHT, DUMFRIES. 

What needs this din about the town o' Lon'on. 

How this new play and that new sang is coram'? 

Why is outlandish stuff sae meikle courted? 

Does nonsense mend, like whisky, when im- 
ported ? 

Is there nae poet, burning keen for fame, 

Will try to gie us sangs and plays at hame ? 

For comedy abroad he needna toil, 

A fool and "knave are plants of every soil ; 

Nor need he hunt as far as Rome and Greece 

To gather maiter for a serious piece; 

There's themes enough in Caledonian story. 

Would show the tragic Muse in a' her glory. 
Is there no daring bard will rise, and tell 

How glorious Wallace stood, how hapless fell? 

Where are the Muses fled, that couid produce 

A drama worthy o' the name o' Bruce ? 

How here, even here, he first unsheath'd the 
sword, 

'Gainst mighty England and her guilty lord ; 

And after mony a bloody, deathless doing, 

Wrench'd his dear country from the jaws of 
ruin ? 

Oh, for a Shakspeare or an Otway scene. 

Te draw the lovely, hapless Scottish Queen! 

Vain all the omnipotence of female charms 

'Gainst headlong, ruthie&s, mad Rebellion's 
arms. 



BURNS' rOETICAL WORKS. 



She fell, but fell with spirit truly Roman, 

To glut the vengeance of a rival woman ; 

A woman— though the phase may seem uncivil— 

As able and as cruel as the Devil ! - 

One Douglas lives in Home's. immortal page, 

But Douglasses were heroes every age : 

And though your fathers, prodigal of life, 

A Douglas follow'd to the martial strife, 

Perhaps, if bowls row right, and Bight succeeds, 

Ye yet may follow where a Douglas leads ! 

As ye hae generous done, if a' the land 
"Would take the Muses' servants by the hand ; 
.Not only hear, but patronise, befriend them, 
And where ye justly can commend, commend 

them : 
And aiblins when they winna stand the test, 
Wink hard, and say the folks hae done their 

best ! 
Would a' the land do this, then I'll be caution 
Ye'll soon hae poets o' the Scottish nation 
Will gar Fame blaw until her trumpet crack, 
And warsle Time and lay him on his back 1 

For us, and for our stage, should ony spier 
"Whasc aught time chiefs maks a' this bustle 

here?'' 
My best leg foremost, I'll set up my brow, 
We have the honour to belong to you ! 
We're your ain bairns, e'en guide us as ye like, 
But, like good mithers. shore before ye strike. 
And gratefu' still I hope ye'll ever find us, 
For a' the patronage and meikle kindness 
We've got frae a' professions, sets, and ranks ; 
God help us ! we're but poor — ye'se get but 
thanks. 



EXTEMPORE IN THE COURT OF SESSION. 
Tune— "Killiecrankie."' 

LORD ADVOCATE. 

He clenched his pamphlets in his fist, 

He quoted and he hinted, 
Till in a declamation-mist, 

His argument he tint it ; 
He gaped for't, he graiped fort, 

He fand it was awa', man ; 
But what his common sense came short 

He eked it out wi' law, man. 

MR. ERSKINE. 

Collected, Harry stood a wee, 

Then open'd out His arm, man •• 
His lordship sat wi' ruefu' e'e, 

And eyed the gathering storm, man; 
Like wind-driven hail, it did assail, 

Or torrents owre a linn, man ; 
The Bench sae wise, lift up their eyes, 

Half-waukened with the din, man. 



TRAGIC FRAGMENT. 

In my early years, nothing less would serve me 
than courting the tragic Muse. I was, I think, 
about eighteen or nineteen when I sketched 
the outlines of a tragedy, forsooth; but the 
bursting of a cloud of family misfortunes, 
which had for some time threatened us, pre- 
vented my farther progress. In those days, I 
never wrote down anything ; so, except a 
speech or two, the whole has escaped my 
memory. The following, which I most dis- 
tinctly remember, was an exclamation from a 
great character— great in occasional instances 
of generosity, and daring at times in villanies. 
He is supposed to meet with a child of misery, 
and exclaims to himself :— B. 

" All devil as I am, a damned wretch, 
Aharden'd, stubborn, unrepenting villain, 
Still my heart melts at human wretchedness; 
And with sincere though unavailing sighs 
view the helpless children of distress. 



With tears indignant I behold th' oppressor 
Rejoicing in the honest man's destruction, 
Whose unsubmitting heart was all his crime. 
Even you, ye helpless crew, I pity you; 
Ye, whom the seeming good think sin to pity: 
Ye poor, despised, abandon'd vagabonds, 
Whom vice, as usual, has turned o'er to ruin. 
Oh, but for kind, though ill-requited friends, 
I had been driven forth like you forlorn, 
The most detested worthless wretch among 
you!" 



ROBERT BURNS' ANSWER. 
To Thomas Walker, Ochiltree, tailor, who 

HAD WRITTEN BURNS A STRONG LETTER OF RE- 
MONSTRANCE. 

What ails ye now, ye lousy bitch. 
To thresh my back at sic a pitch ? 
Losh man ! hae mercy wi' your natch, 

Your bodkin's bauld, 
I didna suffer half sae much 

Frae Daddy Auld. 

What though at times, when I grow crouse, 
I gie their wamcs a random pouse, 
Is that-enough for you to souse 

Your servant sae ? 
Gae mind your scam, ye prick-the-louse ! 

And jag the flae. 

King David, o' poetic brief. 

Wrought "mantf the lasses sic mischief, 

As fill' d his after life wi' grief 

And bloody rants, 
And yet he's rank'd amang the chief 

O' langsyne saunts. 

And maybe Tam, for a' my cants, 

My wicked rhymes, and drucken rants, 

I'll gie auld cloven Clooty's haunts 

An unco slip yet, 
And snugly sit amang the saunts, 

At Davie's hip yet. 

But fegs, the Session says I maun 
Gae fa' upon anither plan. 
Than garrin lasses coup the cran 

Clean heels owre body, 
And fairly thole their mither's ban, 

Afore the howdy. 

This leads me on to tell for sport 
How I did wi' the Session sort— 
Auld Clinkum at the Inner Port 

Cried three times, "Robin! 
Come hither lad, and answer for't, 

Ye're blamed for jobbin'." 
Wi' pinch I put a Sunday's face on, 
And snooA'ed awa' before the Session— 
I made an open fair confession, 

I scorn'd to lie ; 
And syne Mess John, beyond expression, 

Fell foul o' me. 
A fornicator lonn he call'd me, 
And said my fan't frae bliss expell'd me; 
I own'd the tale was true he tell'd me; 

"But what the matter," 
Quo' I, "I fear, unless ye geld me, 

I'll ne'er be better." 
"Geld you!" quo' he, "and what for no? 
If that your right hand, leg, or toe, 
Should ever prove your sp'ritual foe, 

You should remember 
To cut £., aff, and what for no 

Your dearest member? 
"Na, na," quo I, "I'm no for that, 
Gelding's nae better than it's ca't, 
I'd rather suffer for my fan't, " 

A hearty flewit, 
As fair owre hip as ye can draw't. 

Though I should rue it ' 



" Or gin ye like to end the bother, 
To please ns a', I've just ae ither; 
When next wi' yon lass I forgather, 

Whate'er betide it, 
I'll frankly gi'e her't a' thegither. 

And let her guide it 



But, sir, this pleased thern warst ava, 
And therefore. Tain, when that I saw, 
I said, ki Gude-night,'' and cam awa', 

And left the Session; 
1 saw they were resolved a' 

On my oppression. 

THE POET'S WELCOME TO HIS ILLEGITI- 
MATE CHILD.252 

Thou's welcome, wean ! mishanter fa' me, 
If ought of thee, or of thy mammy. 
Shall ever danton me, or awe me, 

My sweet wee lady, 
Or if I blush when thou shalt ca* me 

Tit-ta, or daddy. 

Wee image of my bonnie Betty, 
I fatherly will kiss and daut thee, 
As dear and near my heart I set thee, 

Wi' as gude will, 
As a' the priests had seen me get thee 

That's out o' hell. 

What though they ca' me fornicator, 
And tease my name in kintra clatter : 
The mair thev talk I'm kent the better, 

E'en let them clash : 
An auld wife's tongue's a feckles matter 

To gie ane fash. 

Sweet fruit o' mony a merry dint, 

My funny toil is now a' tint, 

Sin' thoii came to the world asklent, 

Which fools may scoff at ; 
In my last plack thv part's be in't— 

The better half o't. 
And if thou be what I would hae thee, 
And tak the counsel I shall gie thee, 
A lovin' father I'll be to thee, 

If thou be spared : 
Through all thy childish years I'll e'e thee, 

And think't weel wared. 

Gude grant that thou may aye inherit 
Thy mither's person, grace, and merit, 
And thy poor worthless daddv's spirit, 

Without his failins ; 
'Twill please me mair to hear and see't, 

Than stockit mailins. 

VERSES 

ADDRESSED TO THE LANDLADY OF THE INN AT 

ROSLIN. 

Mr blessings on yon, sonsy wife ; 

I ne'er was here before ; 
You've gi'en us walth for horn and knife, 

Nae heart could wish for more. 

Heaven keep yon free frae care and strife ; 

Till far ayont fourscore ; 
And while I toddle on through life, 

I'll ne'er gang by your door 

TO A MEDICAL GENTLEMAN, 

INVITING HIM TO ATTEND A MASONIC ANNIVER- 
SARY MEETING. 



To get a blaud o' Johnie's morals, 

And taste a swatch o' Manson's barrals, 

F the way of our profession. 
Our Master and the Brotherhood 

Wad a' be glad to see you; 

For me I would be mair than proud 



VERSES ADDRESSED TO J. RANKINE 11 

To share the mercies wi' you. 
If death then, wi' scaith then, 

Some mortal heart is hechtin', 
Inform him, and storm him,253 
That Saturday ye'll fecht him. 

Robert Burns. 



LINES 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW OF THE GLOBE TAVERN, 
DUMFRIES. 

The graybeard, old Wisdom, may boast of his 
treasures, 
Give me with gay Follv to live ; 
I grant him his cairn-blooded, time-settled plea- 
sures, 
But Folly has raptures to give. 

LINES ON STIRLING. 

WRITTEN ON A WINDOW IN WINGATE'S INN THERE. 

Here Stuarts once in glory reign'd. 
And laws for Scotia's weel ordain'd ; 
But now unroof 'd their palace stands. 
Their sceptre's sway'd by foreign hands. 
The Stuarts' native race is gone! 
A race outlandish fills their throne— 
An idiot race, to honour lost : 
Who know them best, despise them most. 

Burns, who was then a zealous Jacobite, being 
reproved by a friend for the above lines, 
replied, " I shall reprove myself ; " and imme- 
diately wrote the following lines on the same 
pane:— 

THE REPEOOE. 
Rash mortal, and slanderous poet, thy name 
Shall no longer appear in the records of fame; 
Dost not know that old Mansfield, who writes 

like the Bible, 
Says that the more 'tis a truth, sir, the more 'tis 
a libel? 

REPLY TO A GENTLEMAN, 

WHO ASKFD IF HE WOULD LIKE TO BE A SOLDIER' 

1 Murder hate, by flood or field, 

Though glory's name may screen us ; 
In wars athame I'll spend my blood, 

Life-giving wars of Venus, 
The dieties that I adore, 

Are social peace and plenty; 
I'm better pleased to make one more, 

Than be the death o' twenty 

REPLY TO A CLERGYMAN 



THE BOOK WORMS. 
Through and through the inspired leaves, 

Ye maggots, make your windings; 
But, oh ! respect his lordship s taste, 

And spare his golden bindings ! 

VERSES ADDRESSED TO J. RANKLNE, 

ON HIS WRITING TO THE POET THAT A GIRL IN 
THAT PART OF THE COUNTRY WAS WITH CHILD 
BY HIM. 

I am a keeper of the law 

In some sma' points, although not a' ; 

Some people tell me gin I fa', 

Ae wav or ither ; 
The breaking of a point, though sma', 

Breaks a' thegither 



feCKNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



1 hae been in fort ance or twice, 
And winna say o'er far for tlirice, 
Yet never met with that surprise 

That broke my rest, 
But how a rumour's like to rise, 

A whaup's i' the nest. 

ON ROBERT RIDDEL, ESQ. 
To Riddel, much lamented man, 

This ivied cot was dear ; 
Reader, dost value matchless worth ? 

This ivied cot revere. 

ON A PERSON NICKNAMED MARQUIS, 

WHO DESIRED BURNS TO WRITE AN EPITAPH FOR 
HIM. 

Here lies a mock Marquis, whose titles were 

shamm'd ; 
If ever he rise, it will be to be d d. 

ON SIR DAVID MAXWELL, 
OF CARDONESS. 

Bless the Redeemer, Cardoness, 

With grateful lifted eyes, 
Who said that not the soul alone, 

But body too, must rise : 
For had he said, 'The soul alone 

From death I will deliver;' 
Alas, alas, Cardoness ! 

Then thou hadst slept for ever! 

ON A SUICIDE. 
Earth'd up here lies an imp o' hell, 

Planted by Satan's dibble- 
Poor silly wretch, he's d— d himsel', 

To save the Lord the trouble. 

OH, SAW YE MY DEARIE ? 

Tune— "Eppie Macnab." 
Oh, saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? 
Oh, saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? 
She's down in the yard, she's kissing the laird, 
She winna come hame to her ain Jock Rab. 
Oh, come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab : 
Oh, come thy ways to me, my Eppie M'Nab; 
Whate'er thou hast done, be it late, be it soon 
Thou's welcome again to thy ain Jock Rab. 

What says she. my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? 
What says she, my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab ? 
She lets thee to wot, that she has thee forgot, 
ArA for ever disowns thee, her own Jock Rab 
Oh, had I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab ! 
Oh, bad I ne'er seen thee, my Eppie M'Nab! 
As light as the air. and fause as thou's fair, 
Thou's broken the heart o' thy ain Jock Rab. 



MERRY HAE I BEEN TEETHIN' A 
HECKLE. 

Tune— U Lord Breadalbane's March." 
Oh, merry hae 1 been teethin' a heckle, 

And me'rry hae I been shapin' a spoon ; 
Oh, merry hae I been clontin' a kettle, 

And kissin' my Katie when a' was done. 
Oh, a' the lang dav I ca' at my hammer, 

And a' the lang "day I whistle and sing, 
A' the lang day 1 cuddle my kimmer. 

And a' the lang night am as happy's a king. 

Bitter in dool I lickit mv winnins, 

O' marrying Bess, to gie her a slave : 
Blest be the hour she cool'd in her linens, 

And blithe be the bird that sings on her grave. 
Coine to my arms, my Katie, my Katie, 

And come to my arms and kiss we again ! 
Drunken or sober, here's to thee Katie! 

And blest be the day I did it again. 



OUR THRISSLES FLOURISH'D. 
Tune— "Awa\ Whigs, awa'." 

CHORUS. 

Awa', Whigs, awa' ! 

Awa', Whigs, awa"! 
Ye're but a pack of traitor louns, 
Ye'll do no good at a'. 
Our thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair, 

Our bonnie bloom'd our roses ; 
But Whigs came like a frost in June, 
And wither' d a' our posies. 

Our ancient crown's fa'n in the dust— 
Deil blind them wi' the stonr o't, 

And write their name in his black beuk, 
Wha gae the Whigs the power o't. 

Our sad decay in Church and State 

Surpasses my descriving; 
The Whigs came o'er us for a curse, 

And we hae done wi' thriving. 

Grim Vengeance long has taen a nap, 
But we may see him wauken; 

Gude help the day when royal heads 
Are hunted like a maukin! 



OH, GUDE ALE COMES. 

On. gude ale comes and gude ale goes, 
Glide ale gars me sell my hose, 
Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon, 
Gude ale keeps my heart aboon 
I had sax owsen in a pleugh, 
They drew a' weel eneugh ; 
I sell'd them a' just ane by ane, 
Gude ale keeps my heart aboon. 

Gude ale keeps me bare and busy, 
Gars me moop wi' the servant hizzie, 
Stand i' the stool when I hae done, 
Gude ale keeps my heart aboon. 
Oh. gude ale comes and gude ale goes, 
Gude ale gars me sell my hose, 
Sell my hose, and pawn my shoon, 
Gude ale keeps my heart aboon. 



JAMIE, COME TRY ME. 
Time—" Jamie, come try me." 

CHORUS. 

Jamie, come try me, 
Jamie, come try me ; 
If thou would win my love, 
Jamie, come try me. 

If thou should ask my love, 

Could 1 deny thee ? 
If thou would win my love, 

Jamie, come try me. 

If thou should kiss me, love 
Wha could espy thee ? 

If thou wad be ray love, 
Jaime, come try me. 



THERE'S NEWS, LASSES, NEWS. 

There's news, lasses, news, 

Guid news I've to tell, 
There's a boatfu' o' lads 

Come to our town to sell. 
The wean wants a cradle. 

And the cradle wants a cod: 
And I'll no gang to my bed 

Until I get a nod. 

Father, quo' she, mither, quo' she, 

Do what ye can, 
I'll no gang to my bed, 

Till I get a man. 



MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT GAY. 



I hae as guid a craft rig 
As made o' yird and stane ; 

And waly fa' the ley-crap, 
For I maun till 't agair 

CAULD IS THE E'ENIN' BLAST. 
Tune— "Cauld is the e'enin' blast." 
Cauld is the e'enin' blast 

O' Boreas o'er the pool, 
And dawin' it is dreary 

When birks are bare at Yule. 
Oh, bitter blaws the e'enin' blast 

When bitter bites the frost, 
And in the mirk and dreary drift 

The hills and glens are lost. 

Ne'er sae murky blew the night 
That drifted o'er the hill, 

But. bonnie Peg-a-Kamscy 
Gat grjst to her mill. 

THERE WAS A BONNIE LASS. 

There was a b*nnie lass, 

And a bonnie, bonnie lass, 
And she lo'cd her bonnie laddie dear; 

Till war's loud alarms 

Tore her laddie frae her arms, 
Wi' inony a sigh and a tear. 

Over sea, over shore. 

Where the cannons loudly roar, 
He still was a stranger to fear : 

And nocht could him quell, 

Or his bosom assail, 
But the bonnie lass he lo'ed sae dear. 



SWEET CLOSES THE EVENINGS 
Tune— " Craigieburn-wood." 

CHORUS. 

Beyond thee, dearie, beyond thee, dearie, 
And oh, to be lying beyond thee ; 

Oh, sweetly, soundly, weel may he sleep 
That's laid in the bed beyond thee ! 

Sweet closes the eve on Craigieburn-wood, 
And blithel3 T awankens the morrow; 

But the pride of the spring in the Craigieburn- 
wood 
Can yield to me nothing but sorrow. 

I sec the spreading leaves and flowers, 

I hear the wild birds singing; 
But pleasure they hae nane for me, 

While care my "heart is wringing. 

I canna tell, I maunna tell, 

I darena for your anger ; 
But secret love will break my heart, 

If I conceal it langer. 

I see thee gracefu' straight, and tall, 

I see thee sweet and bonnie ; 
But oh, what will my torments be, 

If thou refuse thy Johnnie ! 
To see thee in anither's arms, 

In love to lie and languish, 
'Twad be my dead, that will be seen, 

My heart wad burst wi' anguish. 
But, Jeanie, say thou wilt be mine, 

Say thou lo'es nane before mc ; 
And a' my days o' life to come 

I'll gratefully adore thee 

MY HEART WAS ANCE. 
Tune— "To the Weavers gin ye go." 
Mv heart was ance as blythe and free 

As simmer days are lang. 
But a bonnie, westlin' weaver lad 
Has gart mc change my sang 



CHORUS. 

To the weavers gin ye go, fair maid, 

To the weavers gin ye go; 
I rede yon right, gang ne'er at night 

To the weavers gin ye go. 

My mither sent me to the town, 

To warp a plaidin' wab ; 
But the weary, weary warpin' o't 

Has gart me sigh and sab. 
A bonnie, westlin' weaver lad, 

Sat working at his loom: 
He took my heart as wi" a net, 

In every knot and thrum. 

I sat besides my warpin'-wheel, 

And aye I ca'd it roun' : 
But every shot and every knock, 

My heart it gae a stoun'. 
The moon was sinking in the west 

Wi' visage pale and wan. 
As my bonnie westlin' weaver lad 

Convey'd me through the glen. 

But what was said, or what was done 

Shame fa' me gin I tell ; 
But, oh ! I fear the kintra soon 

Will ken as weel's raysel'. 

THE TAILOR. 

Tune— The Tailor fell through the bed, 

thimbles and a'." 

The tailor fell through the bed, thimbles and a', 

The tailor fell through the bed, thimbles and a"; 

The blankets were thin and the sheets they were 

sma', 
The tailor fell through the bed, thimbles and a', 

The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill. 
The sleepy bit lassie, she dreaded nae ill; 
The weather was cauld, and the lassie lay still, 
She thought that a tailor could do her nae ill. 
Gie me the groat again, canny young man, 
Gie me the groat again, canny young man; 
The dav it is short, and the night it is lang, 
The dearest siller that ever I wan ! 
There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane, 
There's somebody weary wi' lying her lane ; 
There's some that are dowie, 1 trow wad be fain 
To see the bit tailor come skippin' again. 

MY JEAN! 

Tune— "The Northern Lass." 
Though cruel fate should bid us part, 

Far as the pole and line, 
Her dear idea round my heart 

Should tenderly entwine. 
Though mountains rise, and deserts howl, 

And oceans roar between ; 
Yet dearer than my deathless soul, 

I still would love my Jean. 

MY HARRY WAS A GALLANT GAY. 

Tune—" Highlander's Lament." 
My Harry was a gallant gay. 

Fu' stately strode la- on the plain; 
But now he's banish'd far away, 

I'll never see him back again. 

CHORUS. 

for him back again.' 
O for him back again 1 . 

1 wad gie a Knockhaspie's lanci, 
For Highland Harry back again. 

When a' the lave gae to their bed, 

I wander dowie up the glen ; 
I set me down and greet my filh 

And aye I wish him back again. 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Oh, were some villains hangit high, 
And ilka bodv had their ain ! 

Then I might seethe joyfu' sight, 
My Highland Harry back again. 



THE GOWDEN LOCKS OF ANNA. 

Tune— "Banks of Banna." 
Yesteeeen, I had a pint o' Trine, 

A place where body saw na' ; 
Yestreen lay on this breast o' mine 

The gowden locks of Anna. 
The hungry Jew in wilderness, 

Rejoicing o'er his manna, 
Was naething to my ninny bliss, 

Upon the lips of Anna. 

Ye monarchs, tak the east and west, 

Frae Indus to Savannah ; 
Gie me witliinmy straining grasp 

The melting form of Anna ! 
There I'll despise imperial charms, 

An Empress or Sultana, 
While dying raptures, in her arms, 

I give and take with Anna ! 
Awa\ thou flaunting god o' day I 

Awa', thou pale Diana ! 
Ilk star gae hide thy twinkling ray 

When I'm to meet my Anna"! 
Come, in thy raven plumage, Xight, 

Sun, morn, and stars withdraw a' ; 
And bring ah angel pen to write 

My transports wi' my Anna ! 



WEAEY FA' YOU, DUNCAN GRAY. 

Tune— "Duncan Gray." 
Weaey fa' you, Duncan Gray— 

Ha, ha, the girdin' o't ! 
Wae gae by you, Duncan Gray— 

Ha, ha, the girdin' o't ! 
When a' the lave gae to their play, 

Then I maun sit the lee-lang day, 
And jog the cradle wi' my tae, 

And a' for the girdin' o't. 

Bonnie was the Lammas moon — 

Ha, ha, the girdin' o't ! 
Glowrin' a' the hills aboon— 

Ha, ha, the girdin' o't ! 
The girdin' brak, the beast cam down, 

I tint my curch, and baith my shoon ; 
Ahl Duncan, ve'iv an unco loon— 

Wae on the bad girdin' o't ! 

But, Duncan, gin ye'll keep your aith— 

Ha, ha, the girdin' o't 1 
I'se bless you wi' my hindmost breath— 

Ha, ha, the girdin' o't ! 
Duncan, ye'll keep your aith, 
The beast again can bear us baith, 
And auld Mess John will mend the skaith, 

And clout the bad girdin" o't 



MY HOGG IE. 
Time—" What will I do gin my Hoggie die Y 
What will I do gin my hoggie die? 

My joy, my pride, my hoggie ? 
My only beast, I had nae mae, 
And vow, but I was voggie ! 

The lee-lang night we watch'd the fauld, 

Me and my faithfu' doggie : 
We heard nought but the roaring linn, 

Amang the braes sac scroggie. 

But the howlet cried frae the castle wa' 

The blitter frae the boggie, 
The tod replied upon the hill— 

I trembled, for my hoggie. 



When day did daw, and cocks did craw, 

The morning it was foggy ; 
An unco tyke lap o'er the dyke, 

And maist has killed my hoggie. 

AE FOND KISS.255 
Tune—" Rory Dall's Port." 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
Ae fareweel, and then for ever ! 
Dee]) in heart-wrung tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 
Who shall say that fortune grieves him 
While the Star of Hope she leaves him ? 
Me, nae cheerfu' twinkle lights me; 
Dark despair around benights me. 

I'll ne'er blame my partial fancy, 
Naething could resist my Nancy ; 
And to see her, was to love her ; 
Love but her, and love for ever. 
Had we never loved sae kindly, 
Had we never loved sae blindly, 
Never met or never parted, 
We had ne'er been broken-hearted. 

Fare-thee-weel, thou first and fairest ! 
Fare-thee-weel, thou best and dearest ! 
Thine be ilka joy and treasure. 
Peace, enjoyment, love, and pleasure! 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever ; 
Ae fareweel, alas ! for ever! 
Deep in heart-wrun^ tears I'll pledge thee, 
Warring sighs and groans I'll wage thee. 

HAD I THE WYTE! 
Tune— "Had I the wyte !— she bode me." 
Had I the wyte, had I the wyte, 

Had I the wyte?— she bade me ; 
She watch'd me by the hie-gate side, 

And up the loan she shaAv'd me ; 
And when I wadna venture in, 

A coward loon she ca'd me ; 
Had Kirk and State been in the gate, 

I'd lighted when she bade me 
Sae craftily she took me ben, 

And bade me make nae clatter; 
"For ourramgunshoch glum gudeman 

Is out and owre the water:" 
Whae'er shall say I wanted grace 

When I did kiss and dwat her, 
Let him be planted in my place, 

Syne say 1 was the fauter. 

Could I for shame, could I for shame, 

Could I for shame refuse her? 
And wadna manhood been to blame, 

Had I unkindly used her ? 
He claw'd her wi' the riplin'-kame, 

And blue and bluidy braised her ; 
When sic a husband was frae name, 

What wife but had excused her? 
1 flighted aye her e'en sae blue, 

And banh'd the cruel randy; 
And. weel I wat, her willing mou' 

Was e'en like sugar-candy. 
A gloamin'-shot it was I trow, 

1 lighted on the Monday : 
But I came through the Tysday's dew, 

To wanton Willie's brandy. 

THE BAIRNS GAT OUT. 

Tune—" The Deuks dang o'er my Daddie." 
The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout, 

The dotiks dang o'er my daddie, O! 
The fien'-ma-care, quo' the feme auld wife, 

He was but a paidlin' body, O ! 
He paidles out, and he paidles in. 

And he paidles late and early, ! 
This seven lang years I hae laien by his side, 

And he's but a f usionless carlie, O J 



THE GUIDWIFE OF 

Oh, hand your tongue, my feirie auld wife, 

Oh, hand your tongue now, Nansie, 0: 
I've seen the day, and sae hae ye, 

Ye wadna been sae donsie, O! 
I've seen the day ye butter" cl my brose, 

And cuddled me late and early, O! 
But downa do's come o'er me now, 

And, oh ! I feel it sairly, O ! 

COCK UP YOUR BEAVER. 

Tune—" Cock up your beaver." 
When first my brave Johnnie lad 

Came to this town, 
lie had a blue bonnet 

That wanted the crown ; 
But now he has gotten 

A hat and a feather— 
Hey, brave Johnnie lad 

Cock up your beaver '. 

Cock up your beaver, 

And cook it fa' sprush, 
"We'll over the border 

And gie them a brush ; 
There's somebody there 

We'll teach bettor behaviour— 
Hey brave Johnnie lad, 

Cock up your beaver. 



WHA IS THAT AT MY BOWER DOOR: 
Tune—" Lass, an' I come near'thcc." 

Wha is that at my bower-door? 

Oh, wha is that but Findlay. 
Then sae your gate, ye'se no be here! 

Indeed, maun I, quo' Findlay. 
What muk ye, sae like a thief? 

O come and see, quo' Findlay; 
Before the morn ye'll work mischief; 

Indeed, will I, quo' Findlay 

t I rise and let ye in? 

Let. me in, quo' Findlay; 
Ye'll keep me waukin' wi' your din ; 

Indeed will I, quo Findlay. 
In my bower if you should stay? 

Lor nie stav quo' Findlay; 
I fear ye'll bide till break o' day; 

Indeed will I, quo" Findlay. 
Here this night if ye remain ; 

I'll remain, quo' Findlay : 
I dread ye'll learn the gate again; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay. 
What may pass within this bower — 

Let it pass, quo' Findlay ; 
Y'e maun conceal till your last hour ; 

Indeed will I, quo' Findlay! 



THE RANTIN' DOC THE DADDIE O'T. 

Tune— "East Nook o" Fife." 

On, wha ray baby clouts will buy? 
Oh, wha will tent me when I cry ? 
Wha will kiss me where I lie ; 
The rantin' dog the daddie o't. 



will own he did the fau't? 
will buy the groanin' maut ? 
will tell me how to ca't ? 
ntin'-dog the daddie o't. 
mount the creepie chair, 



Wha will crack to me mv lane ? 

Wha will niak mo tm.g'u' fain? 
Wha will ki- U ie o'er again? 
The rantin* dog the daddie o't. 



WAUCHOPE-IIOUSE. 1 

A FRAG.ME| T. 
Tune— "John Anderson, my jo." 
One night as I did wander, 

When corn begins to shoot, 
I sat me down to ponder 

Upon an auld tree root; 
Auld Ayr ran by before me, 
And bicker'd to the seas ; 
A cushat crooded o'er me, 
That echoed through the braes. 

Oil, LEAVE NOVELS ! 
Tune—" Mauchline Belles." 
Oh, leave novels, ye Mauchline belles, 

Ye're safer at your spinning-wheel : 
Such witching bocks are baited hooks 

For rakish rooks, like Rob Mossgiel. 
Your fine Tom Jones and Grandisons, 

They make your youthful fancies reel; 
They heat your brains, and tiro your veins, 

And then you're prey for' Rob Mossgiel. 

Beware a tongue that's smoothly hung, 
A heart that warmly seems to feel; 

That feeling heart but acts a part— 
Tis rakish art in Rob Mossgiel. 

The frank address, the soft caress, 
Are worse than poison'd darts of steel; 

The frank address and politesse 
Are all finesse in Rob Mossgiel. 



THE GUIDWIFE OF WAUCHOPE- 

HOUSE,256 
TO ROBERT BURNS. 

February, 1778. 
My canty, witty, rhyming ploughman, 
I hafnins doubt it is na true, man, 
That ye between the stilts were bred, 
Wi' ploughmen school'd, wi' ploughmen fed; 
I doubt it sair, yo've drawn your knowledge 
Either frao grammar-school or college, 
Guid troth, your saul and body baith 
Ware better fed. I'd gie my ai'th, 
Than theirs, wha sup sour-milk and parritch, 
And bummil through the Single Carritch. 
Wha ever heard the ploughman speak 
Could tell gif Homer was a Greek? 
He'd flee as soon upon a cudgel, 
As get a single line of Virgil. 
And then sae slee ye crack vonr jokes 
On Willie Pitt and Charlie Fox: 
Our great men a' sae avccI descrive, 
And how to gar the nation thrive, 
Ane maist wad swear ye dwelt amang them, 
And as ye saw them, sae ye sang them. 
But be ye ploughman, be ye peer, 
Ye are a funny blade, I swear: 
And though the cauld I ill can bide, 
Yet twenty miles, and mair, I'd i - ide, 
O'er moss, and miiir, and never grumble. 
Though my auld yad should gie a stumble, 
To crack a winter night wi' thee, 
And hear thy sangs and sonnets slee. 
A guid satit herring raid a cake, 
Wi' sic a chiel, a feast wad make ; 
I'd rather scour your reaming yill, 

i Or eat o' cheese and bread my nil, 

I Than wi' dull lairds on turtle dine, 

I And ferlie at their wit and wine. 
Oh. gif I kenn'd but where ye baidc, 
I'd send to you a marled plaid; 
'Twad baud your shou hers warm and braw, 
And douse at kirk or market shaw; 
For south as weel as north, my lad, 
A' honest Scotsmen lo'c the maud. 
Right wae that we're sae far frae ither; 
Yet proud I am to ca' ye brithcr. 

Your most obedient, E. S. 



118 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



TO THE GUIDWIFE 0' WAUCHOPE-HOUS 

GUIDWIFE, 

I mind it weel, ill early date, 

When 1 was beardless, young, and blate, 

And first could thresh the barn, 
Or hand a yokin' at the pleugh, 
And though forfoughten sair eneugh, 

Yet unco proud to learn ; 
When first amang the yellow corn, 

A man I reckon'd was, 
And wi' the lave ilk merry morn 
Could rank my rig and lass, 
Still shearing, and clearing 

The tither stooked raw, 
Wi' claivers and haivers, 
Wearing the day awa'. 
Even then a wish— I mind its power— 
A wish that to my latest hour 

Shall strongly heave my breast— 
Th.'it I, for poor auld Scotland's sake, 
Some usefu' plan, or beuk could make, 

Or sing a sang at least. 
The rough bur-thistle, spreading wide 

Amang the bearded bear, 
I turn'd the weeder-clips aside, 
And spared the symbol dear : 
No nation, no station, 

My envy e'er could raise: 
A Scot still, but blot still, 
I knew nae higher praise. 
But still the elements o" sang 
In formless jumble, right and wrang, 

Wild floated in my brain: 
Till on that hairst 1 said before 
My partner in the merry core, 

She roused the forming strain ; 
I see her yet, the sonsie quean, 

That lighted up my jingle. 
Her witching smile, her pauky e'en, 
That gart my heart-strings tingle; 
J fired, inspired. 

At every kindling keek. 

But bashing, and dashing, 

I feared aye to speak. 

Health to the sex ! ilk guid chiel says, 

Wi' merry dance in winter days, 

And we" to share in common : 
The gust of joy, the balm of woe, 
The saul o' life, the heaven below, 

Is rapture-giving woman. 
Ye surly sumphs, who hate the name, 

Be niindfu' o' your mither; 
She, honest woman, may think shame, 
That ye're connected with her. 
Ye're wae men, ye're nae men, 
That slight the lovely dears ; 
To shame ye, disclaim ye, 
Ilk honest birkie swears. 
For you, no bred to barn and byre, 
Wha sweetly tune the Scottish lyre, 

Thanks to you for your line: 
The marled plaid ye'kindly spare, 
By me should gratefully beware ; 

'Twad please me to the nine ; 
I'd be mair vauntie o' my hap. 
Douse hin gin' o'er my curple, 
Than ony ermine ever lap, 
Or proud imperial purple. 
Farewell then, lang heal then, 

And plenty be your fa' : 
May losses, and crosses, 
Ne'er at your hallan ca' ! 
March, 1787. 



PRESENTED TO MISS GRAHAM, OF FINTRT. 

Here, where the Scottish Muse immortal lives, 
In sacred strains and tuneful numbers join'd, 

Accept the gift, though humble he who gives; 
Rich is the tribute of the grateful mind. 



So may no ruftian-feelin thy breast, 

Discordant jar thy bosom-chords among; 
But Peace attune thy gentle soul to rest, 

Or Love ecstatic wake his seraph song: 
Or Pity's notes, in luxury of tears, 

As modest Want the tale of woe reveals, 
While conscious Virtue all the strain endears, 

And heaven-born Piety her sanction seals. 

HER D ADD IE FORBADE. 
Tune— " Jumpin' John." 
Her daddie forbade, her minnie forbade; 

Forbidden she wadna be ; 
She wadna trow't the browst she brew'd 
Wad taste sae bitterlie. 

CHORUS. 

The langlad they ca' Jumpin' John 
Beguiled the bonnie lassie ; 

The lang lad they ca' Jumpin' John 
Beguiled the bonnie lassie. 

A cow and a cauf, a yowe and a hauf. 

And thretty glide shillin's and three; 
A vera gudc tocher, a cottar-man's dochter, 

The lass wi' the bonnie black e'e. 



HERE'S HIS HEALTH IN WATER. 

Tune— "The job of journey-work." 
Although my back be at the wa', 

And though he be the tauter; 
Although my back be at the wa', 

Yet here's his health in water! 

Oh ! wae gae by his wanton sides, 

So brawlie he could flatter; 
Till for his sake I'm slighted sair, 

And dree the kintra clatter. 

But thou my back be at the wa', 
And though he be the fauter ; 

But though my back be at the wa', 
Yet here's his health in water! 

THE CARLE OF KELLYBURN BRAES. 

Tune—" Kellyburn Braes." 
There lived a carle on Kellyburn braes, 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,) 
And tie had a wife was the plague o' his days ; 

(And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 



pru 



5-) 



Ae day as the carle gaed up the lang glen, 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie Avi' thyme,) 
He met wi' the devil; says, "How do you 
fen' ?" 
(And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime.) 

"I've got a bad wife, sir; that's a' my com- 
plaint ; 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme.) 
For, saving your presence, to her ye're a 
saint;'' 
(And the thyme it is wither'd and rue is in 
painc. 

" It's neither your stot nor your staig I shall 
crave, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme.) 
But gie me your wife, man, for her I must 
have;" 
(And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 



prn 



s.) 



Oh, welcome, most kindly," the blythe carle 

said, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,) 
But if ye can match her, ye're waur nor ye're 

ca'd;" 
(And the thyme it is wither'd, and rne is in 

prime.) 



DRAW LADS OF GALA WATER. 



The devil has got the old wife on his back, 
(Ilev, and the rue grows bonnie wi thyme.) 

And, like a poor pedlar, lie's carried his pack : 
(And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime.) 

lie's carried her hame to his am hallan-door; 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,) 
Svnu bade her gae in, for a b— h and a w— e ; 
"(And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime.) 
Then straight he makes fifty, the pick o' his 
hand, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,) 
Turn "out on her guard in the clap of a hand; 
(And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime.) 

The carlin gaed through them like ony wud 
bear, 
(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,) 
Whae'er she gat hands on came near her na 
raair, 
(And the thyme it is wither'd and rue is in 
prime.) 
A reekit wee devil looks over the wa' ; 

(Hey. and the rue grows bonnie wi" thyme.) 
"Oh, help, master, help, or she'll ruin us a' ;" 
(And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime.) 
The devil he swore by the edge o' his knife, 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,) 
He pitied the man that was tied to a wife; 
(And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime.) 

The devil he swore by the kirk and the bell, 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme,) 
He was not in wedlock, thank heaven, but in 
hell, 
(And the thyme it is wither'd, and me is in 
prime.) 

Then Satan has travelled again wi' his pack ; 

(Hey, and the rue grows bonnie wi' thyme.) 
And to her aukl husband he's carried her back; 

(And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime.) 

" I hae been a devil the feck o' lny life ; 

(Hey and the rue grows bonnie wi' thvrae.) 
But ne'er was in hell, till I met wi' a wife ; " 

(And the thyme it is wither'd, and rue is in 
prime.) 

WHEN ROSY MAY. 
Tune— "The gardener wi 1 his paidle." 
When rosy May comes in wi' flowers, 
To deck her pay green-spreading bowers- 
Then busy, busy are his hours — • 
The gardener wi' his paidle. 

The crystal waters gently fa' ; 
The merry birds are lovers a' ; 
The scented breezes round him blaw— 
The gardener wi' his jiaidle. 

When purple morning starts the hare 

To steal upon her early fare, 

Then through the dews he maun repair— 

The gardener wi' his paidie. 
Winn day, expiring in Hie west, 
The curtain draws of Nature s rest, 
He flies to her arms he lo'es best— 

The gardener wi' his paidle. 

H E E B~A LOU! 
Tune— "The Highland Balon." 
Hee balou ! my sweet wee Donald, 
Picture o' the great Clanronakl; 
Brawlie kens our wanton chief 
Wha got my young Highland thief. 



Leeze me on thv bonnie craigie. 
An Hum live, tliou'lt steal a naigie: 
Travel the country through and through, 
And bring hame a Carlisle cow. 

Through the Lawlands, o'er the Border, 
Weel, my baby, may thou furder : 
Kerry the lomis o' the laigh countric, 
Syne to the Highlands hame to me. 

BONNIE PEG. 
As I came in by our gate end, 

As day was waxin' weary; 
Oh, wha cam tripping down the street 

But bonnie Peg, my dearie ! 

Her air sae sweet, and shape complete, 

Wi' nae proportion wanting, 
The Queen o' Love did never move 

Wi' motion mair enchanting. 

Wi' linked hands we took the sands 

A-down yon winding river; 
And, oh I that hour and broomy bower, 

Can I forget it ever ! 

WEE WILLIE GRAY. 

Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet ; 

Peel a willow-wand to be him boots and jacket ; 

The rose upon the brier will be to him trouse 

and doublet. 
The rose upon the brier will be to him trouse 

and doublet. 
Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet; 
Twice a lily-flower will be him sark and cravat ; 
Feathers o'f a flee wad feather up his bonnet, 
Feathers of a flee wad feather up his bonnet. 

ON TAM THE CHAPMAN.^ 
As Tarn the Chapman, on a day, 
Wi' Death forgather'd by the way, 
Weel pleased, he greets a wight sae famous, 
And Death was nae less pleased wi' Thomas, 
Wha cheerfully lays down the pack, 
And there blaws up a hearty crack: 
His social friendly, honest heart, 
Sae tickled Death, they could na part: 
Sae after viewing knives and garters. 
Death takes him hame to gi'e him quarters. 

TO CLARINDA. 
Before I saw Clarinda's face, 

My heart was blythe and gay, 
Free as the wind, or feather' d race 

That hop from spray to spray. 

But now dejected I appear, 

Clarinda-proves unkind ; 
I, sighing, drops the silent tear, 

But no relief can find. 
In plaintive notes my tale rehearses 

When I the fair have found; 
On every tree appear my verses 

That to her praise resound. 

But she. ungrateful, shuns my sight, 

My faithful love disdains, 
My vows and tears her scorn excite, 

Another happy reigns. 



BRAW LADS OF GALA WATER, 
Tune—'- Gala Water." 
Braw, braw lads of Gala Water. 

O braw lads of Gala Water: 
I'll kilt my coats aboon my knee. 

And follow my love through the water. 



luilN^ poetical "wora.s. 



Sae fair her hair, sae brent her brow, 
»Sae bonnie bine her e"en, my dearie ; 

.Sae white her teeth, sae -white her mou', 
The mair I kiss she's aye my dearie. 

O'er yon bank and o'er yon brae, ' 

O'er yon moss amang the heather; 
I'll kilt my coots aboon my knee, 

And follow my love through the water. 
Down amang the broom, the broom, 

Down amang the broom, my dearie, 
The lassie lost a silken snood," 

That cost her many a blirt and blearie. 

COME REDE ME, DAME. 
Come rede me," dame, come tell me, dame, 

And mane can tell mair truly, 
What colour maim a man be of, 

To love a woman duly ? 
The carlin clew baith up and down, 

And leugh and answer'd ready, 
. " 1 learn'd a sang in Annandale, 
A dark man for my lady. 

"But for a country quean like thee, 

Young lass I tell thee, fairly, 
Thar wi' the white I've made a shift, 

And brown will do fu' rarely. 

'• There's meikle love in raven locks, 
The- flaxen ne'er grows youden ; 

There's kiss and haase rue in the brown, 
And glory in the gowden." 

THE DISCREET HINT. 
" Lass, when your mither is frae home, 

May I but be sac bauld 
As come to your bower-window. 

And creep in frae the cauld 'i 
As come to your bower-window, 

And when it's cauld an' wat, 
Warm me in thy fair bosom,— 

.Sweet lass, may I do that ?" 

"Young man. gin ye should be sae kind, 

When our guidwife's frae name, 
As come to my bower-window, 

Whare I am laid my lane, 
To warm thee in mv bosom, 

Talt tent, I'll tell thee what, 
The way to me lies through the kirk :— 

Young man, do ye hear that?" 



Now 
E'er 
Lord. 

And 



TO MR. JOHN KENNEDY, 

Kennedy, if foot 'or horse 
bring you in by Manchlirfe O 



se, 



there's lasses there wad force 
A hermit's fancy; 
n the gate, in faith, they're worse, 
And mair unchancy. 

at. as I'm sayin', please step to Dow's, 
ml taste sic gear as .Johnnie brews, 
11 some bit cailant bring me news 

That you are there ; 
nd if we dinna hand a bouse 

1'se ne'er drink mair. 

*s no I like to sit and swallow, 

. i ilk ■ a swine to puke and wallow; 

ut gie me just a true good fallow, 

Wi" l'iieiu ingine. 
r. . • i'.»*'e anee to make us mellow, 

And then we'll shine, 
ow. if ye're ane o' warld's folk-, 
Til rate the wearer by the cloak, 
nd sklent on poverty their joke, 

Wi' bitter sneer, 
,T you no friendship will I troke. 

Nor cheap nor dear. 



But if. as I'm informed week 
Ye hate, as ill's the verra deil. 
The flinty heart that car.na feel. 

Come, sir, here's tae you! 
Hae, there's my hann', I wiss yon weel, 

And gude be wi' you ! 



LUCKLESS FORTUNE. 
On, raging fortune's withering blast 

Has laid my leaf full low, O !" 
Oh, raging fortune's withering blast 

Has laid my leaf full low, O ! 

My stem was fair, my bird was green, 

My blossom sweet did blow. Oh! 
The dew fell fresh, the sun rose mild, 

And made my branches grow, O ! 
But luckless fortune's northern storms 

Laid a' my blossoms low, O! 
But luckless fortune's northern storms 

Laid a' my blossoms low, ! 



TIBBIE DUNBAR- 
Tune—" Johnny M'GhT." 

On, wilt thou go wi'ms, 

Sweet Tibbie Dunbar? 
Oh. wilt thou go wi' me, 

Sweet Tibbie Dunbar? 
Wilt thou ride on a horse, 

Or be drawn in a car, 
Or walk bv my side. 

Sweet Tibbie Dunbar ? 

I care na thy daddie, 

His lands and his money, 
I care na thy kin, 

Sae high and sae lordly: 
But say thou wilt hae me 

For better for waur— 
And come in thv coatie. 

Sweet Tibbie Dunbar! 



OH, WHY THE DEUCE SHOULD I 
REPINE ? 

Oh, why the deuce shonld I repine, 

And be an ill foreboder ? 
I'm twentv-three, and five feet nine— 

I'll go and be a sodger. 
I gat some gear wi meikle care, 

I held it wee! thegither; 
But now it's gane, and something mair— 

I'll go and be a sodger. 

TO THE OWL. 

Sad bird of night! what sorrows call thee forth, 
To vent thv plaints thus in the midnight hour? 

Is it some blast that fathers in the North, 
Ihreafning to nip the verdure of thy bower? 

Is'it. sad owl! that Autumn strips the shade, 
! And leaves thee here, unsheltered and forlorn? 

Or fear that Winter will thy nest invade? 
Or friendless melancholy bids thee mourn? 

I Shut out. lone bird ! from all the feather'd train, 
j To tell thy sorrows to tli' unheeding gloom ; 
: No friend to pity when thou dost complain. 
. Grief all thy thought, and solitude thy home.. 

; Sing on, sad mourner! I will bless thy strain, 
And, plea-ed. in sorrow listen to thy song: 

! King on, sad mourner ! to the night complain, 
While the lone echo wafts thy notes along. 

i ! Is beauty less, when down the glowing cheek, 
Sad. piteous tears in native sorrows fall? 
Less kind the heart when anguish 1 i 1- it break? 
Less happy he who lists to pity's call ? 



ON AN EVENING VIEW 0; 
Ah no, sad owl ! nor is thy voice less sweet, 

That sadness tunes it, and that grief is there : 
Tliat spring's gay notes, unskill'd, thou can st 
repeat ; 
That sorrow bids thee to the gloom repair. 

Nor that the treble songsters of the day 

Are quite estranged, sad bird of night ! from 
thee ; 
Nor that the thrush deserts the evening spray, 

When darkness calls thee from thy reverie. 
From some old tower, tby melancholy dome, 

While the gray walls, and desert solitudes, 
Return each note, responsive to the gloom 

Of ivied coverts and surrounding woods ; 
There hooting, I will list more pleased to thee 

Than ever lover to the nightingale : 
Or drooping wretch, oppress'! with misery, 

Lending his ear to some condoling tale. 

TO MRS. C , 

ON RECEIVING A WORK OF HANNAH MOSS'S. 

Thou flattering mark of friendship kind, 
Still may thy pages call to mind 

The dear, the beauteous donor: 
Though sweetly female every part, 
Yet such a head, and more the heart, 

Does both the sexes honour. 
She show'd her taste refined and just 

When she selected thee, 
Yet deviating, own I must, 
For so approving me ; 
But kind still, I mind still. 

The giver in the gift, 
I'll bless her. and wiss her 
A friend above the Lift ^3 

WHEN FIEST 1 CAME TO STEWART KYLE- 
Tune— "I had a horse, I had nae mair." 
When first I came to Stewart Kyle, 

My mind it was nae steady ; 
Where'er I gaeci, where'er I rade, 

A mistress still I had aye : 
But when I came roun' by Mauchline town, 

Not dreading any body. 
My heart was caught before I thought, 

And by a Mauchline lady. 

THE BANKS O BOON. 

FIRST VERSION. 

Time—" Catherine Ogie." 
Ye flowery banks o' bonnie Doon, 

How can ye bloom sae fair ! 
How can ye chant, ye little birds, 

And I sae fu' o' care! 
Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, 

That sings upon the hough : 
Thou minds me o' the happy days 

When my fause hive was true. 
Thou'll break my heart, thou bonnie bird, 

That sings beside thy mate ; 
For sae I sat, and sae I sang, 

And wist no' o' my fate. 

Aft hac I roved by bonnie Doon,. 

To see the woodbine twine. 
And ilka bird samr o' its iuve, 

And sae did I o' mine. 

Wi' lightsome heart I pu'd a rose, 

Frae aff its thorny tree, 
And mv fause luver staw the rose, 

But left Uk- thorn wi' mc. 



THE RUINS OF LLNCLUDEN ABBEY. 121 

YE HAE LIEN A' WRANG, LASSIE. 
CHORUS. 

Ye hae lien a' wrang. lassie, 

Ye've lien a 1 wrang : 
Ye've lien in an unco bed, 
And wi' a fremit man. 
Your rosy cheeks are turn'd sae wan, 
Ye're greener than the grass, lassie ; 
Your coatie's shorter by a span, 
' Yet ne'er an inch the less, lassie. 
lassie, ye hae play'd the fool, 

And ye will feel the scorn, lassie ; 
For aye the brose ye sup at e'en, 

Ye bock them o'er the morn, lassie. 
Oh, ance ye danced upon the knowes, 

And through the wood ye sang, lassie, 
But in the hurrying o' a bee byke, 
I fear ye've got a stang, lassie. 
Ye hae lien a' wrang, lassie, 

Ye've lien a' wrang, 

Ye've lien in an unco bed, 

And wi' a fremit man. 

ON AN EVENING VIEW OF THE RUINS 
OF LLNCLUDEN ABBEY. 

Ye holy wall's that, still sublime, 
Resist the crumbling touch of time, 
How strongly still your form displays 
The piety of ancient days; 
As through your ruins, hoar and gray- 
Ruins yet beauteous in decay— 
The silvery moonbeams trembling fly: 
The forms of ages long gone by 
Crowd thick on fancy's wand'ring eye, 
And wake the soul to musings high. 
E'en now, as lost in thought profound 
I view the solemn scene around, 
And, pensive, gaze with wistful eyes, 
The past returns, the present flies : 
Again the dome, in pristine pride, 
Lifts high its roof, and arches wide, 
That, knit with curious tracery, 
Each Gothic ornament display : 
The high arcii'd windows, painted fair, 
Show many a saint and martyr there. 
As on their slender forms I'd gaze. 
Methinks they brighten to a blaze! 
With noiseles's step and taper bright, 
What are yon forms that meet my sight ? 
Slowly they move, while everj£*yc 
Is heavenward raised in ecstacy." 
"Pis the fair, spotless, vestal train. 
That seek in prayer the midnight fane. 
And, hark! what more than mortal sound 
Of music breathes the idle around'/ 
'Tis the soft, chanted choral song, 
Whose tones the echoing aisles prolong; 
Till, thence return'd. they softly stray 
O'er Clnden's wave, with fond delay ; 
Now on the rising gale swell high, 
And now in fainting murmurs die; 
The boatmen on Nith's gentle stream, 
That glistens in the pale moonbeam, 
Suspend their dashing oars to hear 
The holy anthem, loud and clear: 
Each worldly thought awhile forbear. 
And mutter forth a half-form'd praver. 
But, as I gaze, the vision fails, 
Like frost-work touch'd by southern gales ; 
The altar sinks, the tapers fade, 
And all the splendid scene's decay'd; 
In window fair the painted pane 
No longer glows with holy stain. 
But through the broken glass the gale 
Blows chillv from the misty vale ; 
The bird of 'eve Hits sulk-noy. 
Her home, these aisles and arc-lies high ; 
The. choral hymn, that erst so clear 
Broke softly sweet on fancy's ear. 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Is drown' d amid the mournful scream, 
That breaks the magic of my dream ! 
Housed by the sound, 1 start and see 
The ruin'd sad reality ! 

AH, CHLORIS! 

Tune— "Major Graham." 

Ah, Ofiloris ! since it may na be 

That thou of love wilt hear ; 
If from the lover thou maun flee, 
Yet let the friend be dear. 

Although 1 love my Chloris mair, 
Than ever tongue could tell ; 

My passion I will ne'er declare, 
I'll say, I wish thee well. 

Though a' my daily care thou art, 
And a' my nightly dream, 

I'll hide the struggle in my heart, 
And say it is esteem 



DAMON AND SYLVIA. 
Tune— "The tither morn, as I, forlorn." 
Yon wandering rill, that marks the hill, 

And glances o'er the brae, sir, 
Slides by a bower, where mony a flower, 

Sheds fragrance on the day, sir. 
There Damon lay, with Sylvia gay, 

To love they thought nae crime, sir; 
The wild birds sang, the echoes rang. 

While Damon's heart beat time, sir. 

AS DOWN THE BURN. 
As down the burn they took their way, 

And through the flowery dale; 
His cheek to hers he aft did lay, 

And love was aye the tale. 

With "Mary, when shall we return, 

Sic pleasure to renew '{" 
Quoth Mary, " Love, I like the burn, 

And aye shall follow you." 

EPITAPH OS MR. BURTON. 
Here cursing, swearing Burton lies, 
A buck, a beau, or " Dera my eyes !" 
Who, in his life, did little good, 
And whose last words were " Dem my blood ! ' 

Oil, LEEZE ME ON MY WEE THING. 

Oh, leeze me on my wee thin?, 
My bonnie blithsome wee thing; 
Sac lang's I hae my wee thing, 

I'll think my lot divine. 
Though Avarld's care we share o't, 
And may see meikle mair o't : 
Wi' her I'll blithely bear it, 

And ne'er a word repine. 

WHEN I THINK ON THE HAPPY DAYS 
When I think on the happy days 

I spent wi' you. my dearie : 
And now what lands between us lie, 

How can I but be eerie ? 
How slow ye move, ye heavy hours, 

As ye were wac and weary ! 
It wasna sac ye glinted by 

When I was wi' my dearie. 

S II EL AlF~ONEIL. 
When first I began for to sigh and to woo her, 

Of many fine things I did say a great deal. 
But, above all the rest, that which pleased her 
the best. 
Was, "Oh, will you marry me. Shelah 
O'NcuT' 



My point I soon carried, for straight we were 
married, 
Then the weight of my burden I soon gan' to 
feel— 
For she scolded, she fisted, oh then I enlisted. 
Left Ireland, and whisky, and Shelah O'Neil ! 

Then tired and dull-hearted, oh then I deserted, 
And fled unto regions far distant from home. 

To Frederick's army, where none e'er could 
harm me, 
Save Shelah herself in the shape of a bomb. 

I fought every battle, where cannons did rattle. 
Felt sharp shot, alas ! and the sharp pointe d 
steel; 
But, in all my wars round, thank my stars, I 
ne'er found 
Ought so sharp as the tongue of cursed Shelah 
O'Neil. 



BONNIE LESLEY. 
O saw ye bonnie Lesley, 

As she gaed o'er the Border? 
She's gane, like Alexander, 

To spread her conquests farther. 

To see her is to love her, 
And love but her for ever; 

For Nature made her what she is, 
And never made anither ! 

Thou art a queen, fair Lesley, 

Thv subjects we, before thee: 
Thou art divine, fair Lesley, 

The hearts o' men adore thee. 
The Deil he could na scaiththce, 

Or ought that wad belang thee ; 
He'd look into thy bonnie face, 

And say, "1 canna wrang thee !" 
The Powers aboon will tent thee, 

Misfortune sha' na steer thee; 
Thou'rt like themselves sae lovely, 

That ill they'll ne'er let near thee. 

Return again, fair Lesley, 

Return to Caledonie! 
That we may brag, we hae a lass 

There's na'ne again sac bonnie. 



s osc 

Tune— "Liggeram Cosh." 
Blithe hae I been on yon hill, 
As the lambs before me; 

Careless ilka thought and free, 

As the breeze flew e'er me ; 
Now lae langer sport and play, 

Mirth or sang can please me ; 
Lesley is sae fair and coy, 

Care and anguish seize me. 
Heavy, heavy is the task, 

Hopeless love declaring: 
Trembling, T dow nocht but glower, 

Sighing, dumb, despairing! 
If shewinna ease the thraws 

In my bosom swelling; 
Underneath the grass-green si.d, 

Soon maun be my dwelling. 



LOGAN WATER. 
Tune— "Logan Water " 
On, Logan, sweetly didst thou glide 
'J hut day I was my Willie's bride ! 
And years sinsyne has o'er us run, 
Like Logan to the simmer sun. 
But now thv flowery banks appear 
Like Drumlie winter, dark and drear. 
While my dear lad maun face his faes, 
Far, far frae me and Logan braes; 



BEHOLD THE HOUR. 



Again the merry month o' May 
Has made our hills and valleys gay -, 
The birds rejoice in leafy bowers, 
Tlie Dees hum round the breathing flowers : 
] 5 iit he Morning lifts his rosy eye, 
And Evening's tears are tears of joy 
My soul, delightless, a' surveys, 
. While Willie's far frac Logan braes. 

Within yon milk-white hawthorn bush, 
Aiming her nestlings sits the thrush; 
Her faithfu' mate will share her toil, 
Or wi' his song her cares beguile : 
But I wi' my sweet nurslings here, 
Nae mate to help, nae mate to cheer. 
Pass widow'd nights, and joyless days 
While Willie's far frae Logan braes. 

O wad upon you, men o' state, 
That brethren rouse to deadly hate! 
As ye male mony a fond heart mourn 
Sac may it on your heads return '. 
How can your flinty'hearts enjoy 
The willow's tears, the orphan's cry? 
But soon may peac brin.ir happy days, 
And Willie li-ame to Logan braes ! 

THILLIS THE FAIR. 

Tune—" Robin Adair.'' 
While larks with little wing, 

Fann'd the pure air, 
Tasting the breathing spring, 

Forth 1 did fare. 
Gay the sun's golden eye, 
Peep'd o'er the monntains high; 
.Such thy morn ! did 1 cry, 

Phillis the fair ! 
In each bird's careless song, 

Glad did I share ; 
While yon wild flowers among, 

Chance led me there: 
Sweet to the opening day, 
Rosebuds bent the dewy spray • 
Such thy bloom ! did I say, 

Phillis the fair! 

Down in a shady walk, 

Doves cooing were : 
1 mark'd the cruel hawk 

Caught in a snare ; 
So kind may fortune be, 
Such make his destiny, 
He who would injure thee, 

Phillis the fair! 

HAD I A CAVE. 
Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, 
Where the winds howl to the waves' dashing 

There would I weep my woes, 

There seek my lost repose. 

Till grief my eyes should close, 
Ne'er to wake more! 
Falsest of womankind ! canst thou declare, 
All thy fond-plighted vows-fleeting as air? 

T« thy new lover hie, 

Laugh o'er thv perjury, 

Then in thy bosom try 
What peace is there ! 

SONG 
rase— "Allan Water." 

By Allan-stream I chanced to rove, 

While Phoebus sank beyond Benledi;259 
The winds were whispering through the grove. 

The yellow corn was waving ready : 
I iisteh'd to a lover's san?, 

And thought on youthfu' pleasures many : 
And aye the wild wood echoes rang— 

Oh dearly do I love thee. Annie ! 



Oh happy be the woodbine bower, 

Nae nightly bogle make it eerie; 
Nor ever sorrow stain the honr. 

The place and time I met my dearie ! 
Her head upon my throbbing breast, 

She, sinking, said, •' I'm thine for ever !" 
While mony a kiss the seal impress'd, 

The sacred vow, we ne'er should sever. 

The haunt o' spring *s the primrose brae, 

The simmer joys the flocks to follow ; 
How cheerie through the shortening day 

Is autumn in her weeds o' yellow ! 
But can they melt the glowing heart. 

Or chain the soul in speechless pleasure, 
Or through each nerve the rapture dart, 

Like meeting her, our bosom's treasure ? 

ADOWN WINDING NITH I DID WANDER. 

Tune—" TheMnckin' o' Geordie's Byre." 

Apowx winding Nith I did wander, 
To mark the sweet flowers as they spring; 

Adown winding Nith I did wander, 
Of Phillis to muse and to sing. 

CHORUS. 

Awa' wi' your helles and and j-our beauties, 

They never wi' her can compare ; 
Whaever has met wi' my Phillis, 
Has met wi' the queen o' the fair. 
The daisy amused my fond fancy, 

So artless, so simple, so wild ; 
Thou emblem, I said, o" my Phillis! 
For she is simplicity's child. 

The rose-bud 's the blush o' my charmer. 

Her sweet balmy lip when 'tis press'd : 
How fair and how pure is the lily, 

But fairer and purer her breast. 
Yon knot of gay flowers in the arbour, 

They ne'er wi' 1113- Phillis can vie: 
Pier breath is the breath 0' the woodbine, 

Its dew-drop o' diamond her eye. 

Her voice is the song of the morning, 

That wakes through the green-spreading groT«, 
When Phoebus peeps over the mountains, 

On music, and pleasure, and love. 
But beauty how frail and how fleeting— 

The bloom ot a fine summer's day! 
Wliil- worth in the mind o' my Phillis 

Will flourish without a decay. 

S O N G . 

Air— "Cauld Rail." 
Come, let me take thee to my brea'st, 

And pledge we ne'er shall sunder; 
And I shall spurn as vilest dust 

The warld's wealth and grandeur ; 
And do I here my Jessie own 

That equal transports move her? 
1 a=k for dearest life alone 

That 1 may live to love her. 

Thus in my arms, wi' a' thy charms, 

1 clasp my countless treasure : 
I'll seek nae mair o' heaven to share, 

Than sic a moment's pleasure: 
And by thy e'en, sae bonnie blue, 

I swear I'm thine for ever! 
And on thv lips I seal my vow, 

And break it shall I never. 

BEHOLD THE HOUR. 
Tune—" Oran-gaoil." 
Behold the hour, the boat arrive: 

Thou go'st, thou darling of my heart ! 
Sever'd from thee, can 1 survive? 
But fate has will'd, and we must part. 



124 BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 

I'll often greet this surging swell, 
Yon distant isle will often hail: 
" E'en here 1 took the last farewell, 
There latest mark'd her vanish's sail." 



Along the solitary shore, 

While flitting sea-fonl round rue cry, 
Across the rolling dashing roar, 

I'll westward turn my wistful eye : 
Happy, thou Indian grove. I'll say, 

Where now ray Nancy's path may be ! 
While through thy sweets she love to stra' 

Oh tell me, does she muse on me ? 

SONG. 
Tune— "The collier's bonnie lassie." 
Deluded swain, the pleasure 

The fickle fair can give thee, 
Is but a fairy treasure— 

Thy hopes will soon deceive thee. 
The billows on the ocean, 

The breezes idlv roaming, 
The clouds' uncertain motion— 

They are but types of woman. 
Oh ! art thou not ashamed, 

To doat upon a feature ? 
If man thou would'st be named, 

Despise the silly creature. 
Go, find an honest fellow : 

Good claret set before thee : 
Hold on till thou art mellow, 

And then to bed in glory. 

M Y 8 POL'S E, N A N C Y. 

fane— "My jo, Janet." 

" Husband, husband, cease your strife, 

Nor longer idlv rave, sir ; 
Though I am your wedded wife, 

Yet I am not your slaA 
"One of two must still orv, 

Nancy. Nancy : 
Is it man, or woman, say. 

My spouse, Nancy ?" 

" If 'tis still the lordly word, 

.Service and obedience : 
I'll desert my sovereign lord, 

And so good-bye allegiance !" 
'• Sad will I be, so bereft, 

Nancy. Nancy ; 
" Yet I'll try to make a shift, 

My spouse, Nancy." 

"My poor heart then break it must, 

My last hour I'm near it : 
When you lay me in the. dust, 

Think, think, how you will bear it." 

" I will hope, and trust in Heaven, 

Nancy, Nancy : 
Strength to bear it will be given, 
My spouse, Nancy." 

" Well, sir, from the silent dead, 

Still Til try to daunt you; 
Ever round your midnight bed 

Horrid sprites -hall haunt you." 

" I'll wed another like my dear 

Nancv, Nancy; 
Then ail hell will fly for fear, 

My spouse. Nancy." 

NANCY. 

Tune—" Quaker's Wife." 
Thlxe am I, my faithful fair, 

Thine, my lovely Nancy ; 
Every pulse along my veins, 

Every roving fancy. 



To thy bosom lay my heart, 

There to throb and languish : 
Though despair had wrung its core. 

That would heal its anguish. 
Take away these rosy iips, 

liich with balmy treasure : 
Turn away thine eyes of love, 

Lest I die with pleasure. 
What is life, when wanting love? 

Night without a morning: 
Love's the cloudless summer sun, 

Nature gay adorning. 

THE BANKS OF CREE. 

Tune— "The Banks of Crec." 
Here is the glen, and here the bower, 
All underneath the birchen shade; 

The village-bell lias told the hour. 
Oh, what can stay my lovely maid ? 

'Tis not Maria's whispering call ; 

"i'is but the balmy-breathing gale, 
Mix'd with some warbler's dying fall, 

The dewy star of eve to hail. 
It is Maria's voice I hear !— 

So calls the woodlark in the grove, 
Ilia little faithful mate to cheer, 

At once 'tis music— and 'tis love. 

And art thou come— and art thou true ? 

O welcome dear to love and me ! 
And let us all our vows renew. 

Along the flowery banks of Crec. 

ON ANDREW TURNER. 
In se'enteen hundred forty-nine, 
Satan took stun to make a swine 

And cuist it in a corner: 
But wilily he changed his plan, 
And shaped it something like a man, 

And cad it Andrew Turner. 



A D D R E S S. 

[Spoken by Miss Fontenellc, on her benefit night, 

Dec. 4, 1795, at the Theatre, Dumfries.] 
Still anxious to secure your partial favour, 
And not less anxious, sure this night, than ever, 
A Prologue. Epilogue, or some such matter. 
'Twould vamp my bill, said 1, if nothing better; 
So, -sought a Poet, roosted near the skies ; 
Told him I came to feast my curious eyes; 
Said, nothing like his works was ever printed; 
And last my Prologue-business slily hinted. 
'Ma'am, let me tell you,' emote mi' man of 

rhymes, 
I know your bent— these are no laughing times : 
'Can you— but Miss, I own I have my fears,— 
Dissolve in pause— and sentimental tears. 
With laden sighs, and solemn-rounded Rei 
Rouse from his sluggish slumbers fell Repen- 
tance ; 
Paint Vengeance as he takes his horrid stand, 
Waving on high the desolating brand, 
Calling the storms to bear him o'er a guilty 
land?' 

I could no more— askance the creature eyeing. 
D've think, said I, this face was made for crying? 
I'll laugh, that's poz— nay more, the world "shall 

know it; 
And so, your servant! gloomy Master Poet ! 

Firm as my creed, sirs, 'tis my fix'd belief, 
That Misery "s another word for Grief; 
I also think— so may I be a bride ! 
That so much laughter, so much life enjoy'd, 

Thou man of crazy care and ceaseless sigh 
Still under bleak Misfortune's blasting eye* 
Doom'd to that sorest task of man alive— 
To make three guineas do the work of five : 



TO ROBERT GllAJtlik 
Laugh in Misfortune's face— the beldam witch! 
Sav, "you'll be merry, tho' you can't oe rich. 

Thou other man of care the wretch in love. 
Who longwith jiltisb arts and airs iiast strove; 
Who, as The b '._':-: M temptingly project, 

Or, where the beetling cliff o'erhangs the deep, 
Peerest to meditate the healing leap. 
Would'st thou be cur'd. thou silly, moping elf, 
Laugh at her follies— laugh e'en at thyself: 
Learn to despise thosa frowns now so terrific, 
And love a kinder— that's your grand specific. 

To sum up ali, be merry." 1 advise ; 
And as wc To merry may we still be wise. 

THE RIGHTS Or WOMAN. 

[An Occasional Address spoken bv Miss Fonte- 
nellc on her Benefit Night. J 

While Europe's eves is h'x'd on mighty things, 
The fate of empires and the fail of kings ; 
While quacks of state must each produce his 

plan, 
And even children lisp the Riyhts of Man : 
Amid this mighty fust, just let me mention. 
The Rights of Woman mei it some attention. 

First, in the sexes' inrermix'd connexion. 
One sacred Right of Woman is protection.— 
The tender flower that lifts its head elate, 
Helpless, must fall before the blasts of fate. 
Sunk on the earth, defae'd its lovely form, 
Unless your shelter ward th' impending storm. 

Our second Right— but needless here is caution. 
To keep that right inviolate 's the fashion. 
Each man of sense has it so full before him, 
He'd die before he'd wrong it— 'tis decorum.— 
There was, indeed, in far less polish'd days, 
A time, when rough rude man had naughty 



Would i 



-car, get drunk, kick up a 

ide a lady's quiet— 

irs! these Gothic times are 



[, ESQ., OF 1/IXIilY, 125 

If inser too— he hinted some suggestion, 

But 'twould be rude, you know, to ask the ques- 

And with a would be-roguish leer and wink, 

He bade me on you press this one word — 
'think! 
Ye sprightly youths, quite flush with hope and 
spirit, 

Who think to storm the world by dint of merit, 

To you the dotard has a deal to say. 

in his sly, dry, sententious, urovcrb way ! 

He bids you mind, amid yonr thoughtless rattle, 

That the first blow is ever half the battle; 

That tho' some by tne skirt may try to snatch 
him. 

Yet by the forelock is the hold to catch him ; 

That whether doinu, suffering, or forbearing, 

You may do miracles bv persevering. 
Last, tho not least in love, ye youthful fair, 

Angelic forms, high Heaven's peculiar care! 

To you old Bald-pate smoothes his wrinkled 
brow, 

And humbly begs you'll mind th' important— 
now ! 

To crown your happiness he asks your leave, 

And offers, bliss to give and to receive. 
For our sincere, tim" haplv weak endeavours. 

With grateful pride, we own your many fa- 
vours ; 

And howso'er our tongues may ill reveal it, 

Believe our glowing bosoms truly feel it. 



BLEGY OX MISS BURNET, OF MON- 
BODDO. 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize. 

Nor envious Death so triuuiph'd in a blow. 

As that which laid th' accoim.iish'd Burnet low. 

TIiv form and mind, sweet maid, can I forget? 

In richest ore the brightest jewel set! 

Tn thee, "niuh Heaven above was truest shown. 

As bv his' noblest work the Godhead best is 



Most humbly own— 'tis dear, dear admiration ! 
In that blest sphere alone we live and mov.- 
There ta.-te that life of li!V-ium:or;.il :„•„•,- 
Smiles, glances, sighs, tears, tits, flirtatio 

When awfu'l iV'au't v io'i'ns w'i'i'hal'i her charms, 
Who is so rash as rise in rebel arms? 
But truce with kings, and truce with constitu- 
tions, 
With bloody armaments and revolutions; 
Let Majesty vonr first attention summon, 
Ah! ga ira! the Majesty of Woman! 

PROLOGUE, 
[Snoken at the Theatre. Dumfries, on In c-w- Year- 
day Evening.] 
No song nor dance I bring from yon great city 
That queens it o'er our taste— the more's the 

pity : 
Tho'. by the bye. abroad why will you roam? 
Good sense and taste .- : - .• • at home: 

But not for pan •; 

I come to wish von all a good new j'ear ! 
Old Father time depu; .■ye, 

Not for to preach, but tell his simple story: 
The s aire grave ancient couglrd, and bade me 

sav, 
'You're 'one year older this important day,' 



Princes, whose cumb'rous pride was all their 
worth. 

Shall venal lavs their pompous exit hail? 
Ami tlKui. sweet excellence: forsake our earth, 

A Hi not a Muse in honest grief bewail? 



' And 
But lik'i 



routh and beauty's, pride, 
that beams beyond the 

d at morning tide, 



TO ROBERT GRAHAM, ESQ , OF FINTRY. 
When Nature her great master-piece designed, 

And franfd her last, best work, the human 



...hid, 
Tier eye intent on 
She form'd of vari 
Then tirst she cs 
Plain, plodding in< 
Thence peasants, i 



12G 

And n 



BUltXS' POETICAL WORKS. 



nt cit a warm existence finds,, 
And all mechanics' many-apron'd kinds. 
Some other rarer sorts are wanted yet, 
The lead and buoy are needful to the net : 
The caput mortuum of gross desires 
Makes a material for mere knights and squires, 
The martial phosphorus is taught to flow, 
She kneads the lumpish, philosophic dough, 
Then marks th" unyielding mass with grave de- 
signs 
Law, physics, polities, and deep divines: 
Last, she sublimes th' Aurora of the poles, 
The flashing elements of female souls. 

The order' d system fair before her stood, 
Nature, well-pleas'd. pronounced it very good; 
Rut here she gave creating labour o'er, 
Half-jest, she try'd one curious labour more. 
Some spumy, fiery units faluus matter; 
Such as the slightest breath of air might 

scatter; 
With arch-alacritv and conscious glee 
(Nature mav have' her whim as well as we. 
Her Hogarth-art perhaps she meant to shew it) 
She (onus the thin- an I christens it-a Poet. 
Creature, tho' '.ft the ;.rcv of care and sorrow, 
When blest to-day unmindful of to-morrow. 
A being form'd f amuse his graver friends. 
Admir'd and prais'd — and there the homage 

ends ; 
A mortal quite unfit for Fortune's strife, 
Yet oft the sport of all the ills of life; 
Prone toenjov each pleasure rie! 
Vet haply wanting wherewithal to live ; 
Lomring to wiae each tear, to heal each groan, 
Yet frequent all unheeded in his own. 

Put honest Nature is not quite a Turk: 
She laugh'd at first, tli-n felt for lier poor work; 
Pitying the propless climb sr of mankind, 
Site cast about a standard-tree to find; 
And. to support hi- h -1 iless woodbine state 
Attach'd him to the g< iierous truly great— 
A title, and the only one 1 claim, 
To lav stung hold for help on bonnteo 
ham. 

Pitv the tuneful Pluses' hapless train, 
Weak, timid landsmen on life's stormy main ! 
Their hearts no selfish, stern, absorbent stiitf, 
That never gives— tho' humbly takes en 
The little fate allows, they share as soon. 
Unlike sage, provcrb'd Wisdom's hard-wrung 

boon. 
The world were blest did bliss on them 
Ah ! that the friendly e'er should want a. friend ! 
Let prudence number o'er each sturdy son, 
Wh > life and wisdom at one race begun. 
Who feel bv reason, and who give by rule, 
Instinct's a brute, and sentiment a fool!) 
Who make poor icill <lo wait upon J should— 
We own they're prudent; but who feels they're 
good? 

Ye wise ones, hence ! yehnrt the social eye ! 
Ood's image rudely etch'd on base alloy 1 
Put come ye who the god-like pleasure know, 
Heaven's attribute distingnish'd— to bestow: 
Whose arms of love would grasp the human 

Come thou who giv'st with all the courtier's 

Friend of mv life, true patron of my rhymes ! 
Prop of my dearest hope- for future times. 
Whv shrinks mv *oul hair-blushing, half -afraid, 
Backward, abash'd to ask thy friendly aid? 
I knowmy need. I know thy giving hand. 
I crave thy friendship at thy kind command : 
But there 'are such who court the tuneful nine- 
Heavens ! should the branded character be 

mine ! 
Whose verse in manhood's pride sublimely 

flows, 
Yet vilest reptiles in their begging prose. 
Mark, how their lofty, independent spirit 
Soars on the spurning wing of injur'd merit ; 



Seek not th" proofs in private life to find : 
Pity the best of words should be but wind! 
So to heaven's gates the lark's shrill song as- 
cends, 
But groveling on the earth the carol ends. 
In all the elam'rous cry of starving want. 
Thev dun benevolence' with shameless front: 
Oblige them, patronise their tinsel lays, 
Thev persecute you all your future days ! 
Ere my poor soul such dec-]) damnation stain, 
My horny fist assume the plough again; 
The piebald jacket let me parch once more ; 
( m eighteen-pence a-week I've liv'd before. 
Tho'. thanks to Heaven, I dare even that last 

shift: 
I trust, meantime, my boon is in thy gift : ■ 
That placed by thee upon the wish'd-for height, 
Where, Man and Nature fairer in her sight. 
My Muse mavinm her wing for some sublimer 
* flight. " * 

TO DR. BLACKLOCK. 

EUisland, Oct. 21, 1789. 
Wow. but your letter made me vauntie ! 
And are ve hale, and weel, and cantie'/ 
1 ken. I'd it still vour wee bit jauntic 

Wad bring ye to: 
Lord send you ay as weel s as I want ye, 
And then ye'll do. 

The ill-thief blaw the Heron south! 
And never drink be near his drouth! 
He laid mvsel'. bv word./ mouth, 
He'd tak my letter! 

I lippen'd to the chiel in tronth 

And bade nae better. 

But aiblins honest .Master Heron 

II id at the time sour- dainty fair one, 
'in ware his thcologic care on. 

And hoiv study ; 
An' tir'd o" sauls to waste his lear on, 

E'en tried the body. 
But what d'ye think, my trusty her? 
I'm turn'd a guager— peace be here! 
Parnassian quc-iis. I fear. I fear, 

Ye'll now disdain me, 
And then mv fiftv pounds a year 

Will little gain me. 

Ye glaiket. gleesome, dainty damies, 
Wha'bv Oastalia's wim.din' streamies, 
. sing, and lave your pretty limbics, 

Ye ken. ye ken 
That Strang necessity supreme is 

'Mang sons o' men. 
T hae a Avife and twa wee laddies. 
They maun hae brose and brats o' daddies ; 
Ye ken yoursel my heart right proud is, 

I needna vaunt. 
But I'll sued besoms— thraw sangh woodies, 

Before they want. 
Lord help me thro" this warld o' care ! 
I'm weary sick o't late and air! 
Not but I hae a richer share 

Than monie ithers ; 
But whv should ae man better fare. 

And a' men brithers? 
Come, Firm Resolve, take thou the van, 
Thon 'talk o' carl-hemp in man! 
And let us mind faint heart ne'er wan 

A lady fair: 
Wha does the utmost that he can. 

Will whyles do mair. 

But to conclude my silly rhyme. 
(I'm scant o" verse and scant o" time,) 
To make a happy fire-side clime 

To weans and wife, 
That's the true pathos and sublime 

Of human life. 



1 HAE A WIFE O" MY AlN. 



My compliments to sister Veckie ; 
And eke the same to "honest Luckie, 
1 wat she is a dainty elmekie 

As e'er tread clay! 
An' gratefully, my guid anld cockie, 

I'm yours for ay. 

.Robert Burns. 

TIIOL' HAST LEFT ME EVER, JAMIE. 
I enclose you the music of 'Fee him Father,' 
■with two verses, which I composed at tlie time 
in which Patie Allan's mither died, that was 
about the back o' midnight, and by the lee 
side of a bowl of punch, -which had ovei-set 
every mortal in company except the hautbois 
and the music.— Burns to Thomson. 
Tune—" Fee him Father." 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 

Thou hast left me ever, 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie, 

Thou hast left me ever. 
Aften hast thou vow'd that death 

Only should its sever, 
Now thou'st left thy lass for ay— 
I maun see thee never, Jamie, 
I'll see thee never. 
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, 

Thou hast me forsaken, 
Thou hast me forsaken, Jamie, 

Thou hast me forsaken. 
Thou canst love anithcr jo, 

"While my heart is breaking, 
Soon my -weary een I'll close- 
Never mair to -waken, Jamie, 
Never mair to -waken. 

BY YON CASTLE WA\ &c. 

["Written in imitation of an old Jacobite song, of 

which the following are two lines—] 

My lord's lost his land, and my lady her name, 

There'll never be right till Jamie comes name. 



By yon castle wa' 
1 heard a man s 


at the close o' the day, 

ng, though his head' it was 


And as he was 


ringing, the tears fast down 


There'll never be 


)eace till Jamie comes hame. 



The church is in ruins, the state is in jars, 
Delusions, oppressions, and murdemu, wars; 
We dare na weel say't, but we ken wha's to 

blame— 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 
My seven braw sons for Jamie drew sword, 
And now I greet round their green beds in the 

yird, 
It brak the sweet heart o' my faithu' anld 

dame— 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 
Now life is a burden that sair bows me down, 
Sin' I tint my bairns, and he tint his crown; 
But till my last moment my words are the 

same— 
There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame. 

THE CHEVALIER'S LAMENT. 
' When Prince Charles Stuart, saw that utter 
ruin had fallen on all those who loved him and 
fought for him— that the axe and the cord 
were busy with their persons, and that their 
wives and children were driven desolate, he is 
supposed, by Burns, to have given utterance to 
in this Lament.— Allan Cunning- 



ham. 

Tune 
The small birds 



-"Captain O' Kaine." 

rejoice in the green leaves re- 

5 streamlet winds clear thro' 



The hawthorn trees blow in the dews of the 
morning, 
And wild scatter'd cowslips bedeck the green 
dale ; 

But what can give pleasure, or what can seem 
fair, 
"While the lingering moments are n umber' d by 
care ? 
No flowers gaily springing, nor birds sweetly 
singing. 
Can smooth the sad bosom of joyless despair. 

The deed that 1 dar'd could it merit their 
malice, 
A king and a father to place on his throne ? 

His right are these hills, and his right are these 
valleys, 
Where the wild beasts find shelter, but I can 
find none. 

But 'tis not my sufferings, thus wretched, for- 
lorn, 
My brave gallant friends, 'tis your ruin I 
mourn, 
Your deeds prov'd so loyal in not bloody trial, 
Alas ! can I make you no sweeter return 'i 



BONNIE MARY 

In the notes to Johnson's Museum, Burns claims 
all this song as his composition, except the first 
four lines. It is written to the old melody, 
% The silver tassie.'— The air is Oswald's. 

Go fetch to me a pint o' wine, 

And fill it in a silver tassie ; 
That I may drink before I go, 

A service to my bonnie lassie. 
The boat rocks at the pier of Lcith; 

Fu' loud the wind blaws frae the ferry; 
The ship rides by the Berwick-law— 

And I maun leave my bonnie Mary. 

The trumpets sound, the banners fly, 

The glistering spears are ranked ready; 
The shouts o" war are heard afar, 

The battle closes thick and bloody : 
But it's not the roar o' sea or shore 

Wad make me hinge r wish to tarry; 
Nor shout o' war that's heard afar, 

It's leaving thee, my bonnie Mary. 



I HAE A WIFE O' MY A IN. 

The Poet was accustomed to say that the most 
happy period of his life was the first winter he 
spent at Elliesland— for the first time under a 
roof of his own,— with his wife and children 
about him. It is known that he welcomed his 
wife to her roof-tree at Elliesland in this song. 
— Lockliart. 

I hae a w T ife o' my ain, 

I'll partake wi" naebody ; 
I'll tak cuckold frae nane, 
I'll gie cuckold to naebody. 

I'll hae a penny to spend, 

There— thanks to naebody; 
I hae naething to lend, 

I'll borrow frae naebody. 

I am naebody's lord, 

I'll be slave to naebody ; 
I hae a guid broad sword, 

I'll tak d unts frae naebody. 

I'll be merry and free. 

I'll be sadfor naebody; 
If naebody care for me, 

I'll care for naebody. 



128 



BURX3' POETICAL WORKS. 



LOVELY DAVIE S. 
Tune—" Miss Mail'." 

how shall I, unskilfu", try 
The poet's occupation. 

The tunefu" powers, in happy hours, 

That whispers inspiration? 
Even they raann dare an effort niair. 

Than aught they ever gave us, 
Or they rehearse-, in equal verse, 

The charms o' lovely Davies. 
Each eye it cheers, when she appears, 

Like Phoebus in the morning. 
When past the shower, and ev'rv flower 

The garden is adorning. 
As the wretch looks o'er Siberia's shore, 

When winter-bound the wave is ; 
Sae drops our heart when we maun part 

Frae charming lovely Davies. 
Her smile's a gift, frae 'boon the lift, 

That tnaks us more than princes; 
A scepter*d hand, a king's command. 

Is in her darting glances : 
The man in arms, gainst female charms, 

Even he her willing slave is j 
He hugs his chain, and owns the reign 

< >f conquering, lovely Davies. 
My muse to dream of such a tiling, 

Her feeble powers surrender: 
The eagle's gaze alone Bnrveys 

The sun's meridian splendour: 

1 wad in vain essay the strain, 
The deed too daring brave is ; 

['ltdrap the lyre, and mute admire 
The charms o' lovely Davies. 



THE OOOPER 0' CUDDIE. 

■der. 
Tiif. cooper o' Cnddie cam' here awa, 
And ca'd the girrs out owre us a — 
And our gude-wife lias gotten a ea' 

That anger'd the silly gude-'.nan. (">. 
We'll hide the e. .,,..«•!• behind the door, 
Behind the door, behind the door; 
We'll hide the cooper behind th 

And cover him under a uiawn, O. 
He sought them out. he sought them in, 
\\T. deil hae her! and. deil hae him! 
But the body was >ae doited and blin', 

He wist na where he was gaun, o. 

They cooper'd at e'en, they cooper'd at morn, 
'Till our gude-man has gotten the 
On ilka brow she's planted a horn. 
And swears that they shall stari*, O. 

We'll hide the cooper behind the door, 
P.ehind the dour, behind the il 
We'll hide the cooper behind the door, 
Am! cover him under a uiawn, O. 



SKETCH. 

IX.~CP.IBED TO THE HIGHT HON". C. J. FOX. 

How Wisdon and Folly meet, mix, and unite; 
How Virtue and Vice blend their black and their 
white : 
mins, th" illustrious father of fi 
mds rule a;:d law. reconciles contradic- 
tion— 
I sing: If these mortals, the Critics, should 

bustle. 
T care not. not I— let the Critics go whistle ! 

But now for a Patron, whose name and whose 

3 

At once may illustrate and honour my story. 
Thou, first of onr orators, first of onr wits; 
Yet whose parts and acquirements seem just 
lucky hits ; 



With knowledge so vast, and with judgment 

strong, 
Xo man, with the half of 'em, e'er w r ent far 

wrong ; 
With passions so potent, and fancies so bright. 
Xo man with the half of 'em e'er went quite 

right ; 
A sorry, poor, misbegot son of the Muses, 
For using thy name offers fifty excuses. 
Good Lord, what is man ! for as simple he looks, 
Do but try to develop his hooks and his crooks, 
With his depths and his shallows, his good and 

his evil, 
All in all, he'* problem must puzzle the devil. 
On his one ruling Passion Sir Tope hugely 

labours, 
That, like th' old Hebrew walking-switch, eats 

up its neighbours : 
Mankind are his show-box— a friend, would you 

know him ? 
Pull the string. Ruling Passion, the picture will 

show him. 
What pity, in rearing so beauteous a system, 
One trifling particular, Truth, should have 

iniss'd him ! 
Vxv. spite of his fine theoretic positions, 
Mankind is a science defies definition. 
Some sort all our qualities each to its tribe. 
And think Human-nature thev truly describe: 
Hive you found this, or t'other? there's more 

in the wind, 
t j bv one drunken fellow his comrades you'll 

find. 
But such is the flaw, or the depth of the pla 
In the make of the wonderful creature call'd 

Man, 
Xo two virtues, whatever relation they claim, 
Nor even two different shades of the same, 
Though like as was ever twin-brother to brother, 
_ the one shall imply you've the other. 
with abstraction, and truce with a 

muse. 
Whose rhymes vou'll perhaps, Sir, ne'er deign 

to peruse: . 
Will you leave your justings, your jars, and 

vour qnarsels, 
Contending with Lilly for proud-nodding 

laurels! 
My mucb-honour'd Patron, believe vour poor 

Poet, 
Your courage much more than your prudence 

yon ^how it. 
In vain with Squire Billy for laurel; you 

struggle, 
He'll have them by fair trade, if not, he will 

smuggle ; 
Not cabinets even of kings would conceal 'em. 
He'd up the back-stair.-, and by <•— he would 

steal 'em. 
Then feats like Squire Billy's you ne'er can at- 

chieve 'em, 
It is not, outdo him— the task is, out-thieve him. 

SOXG OF DEATH. 

A GAELIC AIR. 

S( kite.— A field of battle. Time of the day^— Even- 
ing. The wounded and dying 'of the victorious 
army are supposed to join 'in the song. 
Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth, and 
ye skies. 
Xow gar with the hricmt setting sun ! 
Farewell," loves and friendships, ye dear, tender 
^ties. 
Our race of existence is run ! 

Thou grim King of Terrors, thou life's gloomy 
foe. 
Go. frighten the coward and slave ! ■ 
Go, teach them to tremble, fell Tyrant: but 
know 
Xo terrors hast thou for the brave! 



Thou strik'st the dull peasant— lie sinks in the 
dark, 

Nor saves e'en the wreck of a same : 
JThon strik'st the young hero— a glorious mark! 

He falls in the blaze of his fame ! 

In the field of proud honour— our swords in our 
hands, 

Our King and our Country to save— 
While victory shines on life's last ebbing sands, 

0! who would not rest with the brave ! 



FRAGMENT. 

Now health forsakes that angel face, 

2^ae mair my Dearie smiles ; 
Pale sickness withers ilka grace, 

And a' my hopes beguiles. 
The cruel powers reject the prayer 

I hourly mak' for thee ; 
Ye heavens, how great is my despair 

How can I see him dee ! 



WOMEN'S MINDS. 
Time— "For a' that." 
Tho' women's minds like winter winds 

May shift and turn, and a' that, 
The noblest breast adores them maist, 
A consequence I draw that. 

For a' that, and a' that. 

And twice as meikle's a' that, 
The bonie lass that I loe best 

She'll be my ain for a' that. 

Great love I bear to all the fair, 
Their humble slave, and a' that : 

But lordly will, I hold it still 
A mortal sin to thraw that. 
For a' that, <fcc. 

But there is ane aboon the lave, 

Has wit, and sense, and a' that ; 
A bonie lass, I like her best, 

And wha a crime dare ca' that ? 
For a' that, <fcc. 
In rapture sweet this hour we meet, 

Wi' mutual love and a' that ; 
But for how lang the flic may stang, 

Let inclination law that. 
For a' that, <fec. 
Their tricks and craft hae put me daft, 

They've ta'en me in, and a' that : 
But clear your decks, and here's 'The Sex! 1 

I like the jades for a' that. 
For a' that, fee. 



ON A LAP-DOG NAMED ECHO. 

Ix wood and wild, ye warbling throng, 

Your heavy loss deplore ; 
Now half extinct your powers of song, 

Sweet Echo is no more. 
Ye jarring, screeching things around, 

Scream your discordant joys; 
Now half your din of tuneless sound 

With Echo silent lies. 



ON A WAG IN MAUCHLINE. 

Lament him-Mauehline husbands a', 

He aften did assist ye ; 
For had ye staid whole weeks awa', 

Your wives they ne'er had miss'd ye. 
Ye Mauchnne bairns, as on ye pass 

To school in bands thegither, 
O tread you lightly on his grass, 

Perhaps he was your father; 



TO DR. MAXWELL. 

ON MISS JESSY STAIG'S RECOVERY. 

Maxwell, if merit here you crave, 

That merit I deny— 
You save fair Jessy from the grave ! 

An angel could noe die. 



HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSOX, POET. 

Born September 5th, 1750.— Died 16th October, 
1774. 

No sculptur'd marble here, nor pompous lay, 
'No storied urn nor animated bust,' 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way 
To pour her sorrows o'er her Poet's dust. 

S O N G. 

Tune— "Maggy Lauder.'' 
Whex first I saw fair Jeanie's face, 

I couklna tell what aded me, 
My heart went fluttering pit-a-pat, 

My een they almost failed me. 
She's aye sae neat, sae trim, sae tight, 

All grace does round her hovei-, 
Ae look deprived me o' my heart, 
And I became a lover. 
She's aye, aye sae blithe, sae gay, 
She'd aye so blithe and cheerie ; 
She's aye sae bonie, .blithe, and gay, 
O gin I were her dearie ! 

Had I Dundas's whole estate, 

Or Hopetoun's wealth to shine in ; 
Did warlike laurels crown my brow, 

Or humbler bays entwining— 
I'd lay them a' at Jeanie's feet, 

Could I but hope to move her, 
And prouder than a belted knight, 

I'd be my Jeanie's lover. 
She's aye, aye sae blithe, sae gay, &c. 
But sair I fear some happier swain 

Has gained sweet Jeanie's favour: 
If so, may every bliss be hers, 

Though I maun never have her: 
But gang she east, or gang she west, 

'Twixt Forth and Tweed all over, 
While men have eyes, or cars, or taste, 

She'll always find a lover. 
She's aye, aye sae blithe, sae gay, &c. 



E P I G R A 31. 

Wiiex ■, deceased, to the devil went clown, 

'Twas nothing would serve him but Satan's own 

crown ; 
'Thy fool's head,' quoth Satan, 'that crown 

shall wear never, 
I grant thou'rt as wicked, but not quite so 

clever.' 



VERSE S. 

IXTEXDED TO BE WRITTEX BELOW A XOBLE EARL'S 
PICTURE. 

Wuose is that noble, dauntless brow ? 

And whose that eye of fire ? 
And whose that generous princely mien, 

Even rooted foes admire? 

Stranger, to justly show that brow, 

And mark that eye of tire, 
Would take His hand, whose vernal tints 

His other works admire. 



Bright as a cloudless 
With stately port h> 

His guardian seraph e 
The noble ward he U 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Among the illustrious Scottish sons 

That chief thou may'st discern ; 
Mark Scotia's fond returning eye, 

It dwells upon Glencairn. 

THE BEAW BRIDAL. 

The last braw bridal that I was at, 

'Twas on a Hallowmass day, 
And there was routh o' drink and fun, 

And mickle mirth and play. 
The bells they rang, and the carlins sang, 

And the dames danced in the ha' ; 
Tlic bride went to bed wi' the silly bridegroom, 

hi the midst o' her kimmers a'. 

LINES WRITTEN AT LOUDON MANSE. 
The night was still, and o'er the hill 

The moon shone on the castle wa' ; 
Tbe mavis sang, while dew-drops hang 

Around her, on the castle wa' 
Sac merrily they danced the ring, 

Frae cenin' till the cock did craw ; 
And aye the o'erword o' the spring, 

Was Irvine's bairns are bonie a'. 



KATHARINE JAFFRAY. 

There liv'd a lass in yonder dale, 

And down in yonder glen, O; 
And Katharine Jaffrav was her name, 

Weel known to many men, O. 

Out came the Lord of Lauderdale 

Out frae the south countrie, O, 
All for to court this pretty maid, 

Her bridegroom for to be, O. 
He's tell'd her father and mother baith, 

As I bear sindry say. O; 
Bat he has na tell'd the lass hersel' 

Till on her wedding day, O. 

Then came the Laird o' Lochinton 

Out frae the English binder. 
All for to court this pretty maid, 

All mounted in good order. 

THERE'S NAETHIN LIKE THE HONEST 
NAPPY 
There's naethin like the honest nappy ! 
Whaur'H ye e'er see men sac happy, 
Or women sonsie, saft an' sappy, 

'Tween morn an' morn. 
As them wha like to taste the drappic 
In glass or horn. 

I've seen me daez't upon a time ; 
I scarce could Avink or see a stymc ; 
Just ae hauf muchkin does me prime, 

Ought less is little, 
Then back I rattle on the rhyme 

As gleg's a whittle ! 

M Y M I N N I E. 
O wat ve what my minnie did. 

My minnie did, 'my minnie did, 
O wat ye what my minnie did, 

On Tysday 'teen to me. jo ? 
She laid me in a saft bed, 

A saft bed. a saft bed, 
She laid mo in a saft bed, 

And bade gudeen to me, jo. 
An' wat ye what the parson did, 

The parson did, the parson did, 
An' wat ye what the parson did, 

A' for a penny fee, jo? 
He loosed on me a lang man. 

A mickle man, a strange man. 
He loosed on me a Ian? man, 

That might hae worried me, jo. 



An' I was but a young thing, 

A young thing, a young thing, 
An' I was but a young thing, 

Wi' nane to pity me, jo. 
I wat the kirk was in the wyte, 

In the wyte, in the wyte, 
To pit a young thing in a fright, 

An' loose a man on me, jo. 



THE EPITAPH. 

Stop, passenger! my story's brief, 
And truth 1 shall relate, man; 

I tell nae common tale o' grief,— 
For Matthew was a great man. 

If thou uncommon merit hast, 
Yet spurn'd at fortune's door, man; 

A look of pity hither cast,— 
For Matthew was a poor man. 

If thou a noble sodger art, 
That passest by this grave, man, 

There moulders here a gallant heart,— 
For Matthew was a brave man. 

If thou on men, their works and ways, 
Canst throw uncommon light, man ; 

Here lies wha weel had won thy praisc,- 
For Matthew was a bright man. 

If thou at friendship's sacred ca' 

Wad life itself resign, man; 
Thv sympathetic tear maun fa',— 

For Matthew was a kind man. 

If thou art staunch without a stain, 
Like the unchanging blue, man ; 

This was a kinsman o' thy ain,— 
For Matthew was a true man. 

If thou hast wit, and fun, and fire, 
And ne'er gude wine did fear, man ; 

This was thv billic, dam, and sire,— 
For Matthew was a queer man. 

If ony whiggish whingin sot, 
To blame poor Matthew dare, man ; 

May dool and sorrow be his lot,— 
For Matthew was a rare mail. 



GRACE BEFORE MEAT. 

O Lord, when hunger pinches sore. 

Do thou stand ns in need, 
And send us from thy bounteous store, 

A tup or wether head ! Amen. 



MY BOTTLE. 

My bottle is my holy pool, 
That heals the wounds o' care an' dool, 
And pleasure is a wanton trout. 
An' ye drink it, ye'll rind him out. 



THE BONNIE LASS OF ALBANY. 
Tune—" Mary's Dream." 

My heart is wae. and unco wae, 
To think upon the raging sea. 

That roars between her gardens green 
And the bonnie Lass of Albany. 

This lovely maid's of royal blood 
That ruled Albion's kingdoms three, 

But oh, alas, for her bonie face, 
They hae wrank'd the Lass of Albany. 



IMPROMPTU. 



131 



in the rolling tide of spreading Clyde 
There sits an isle of high degree, 

And a town of fame whose princely name 
Should grace the Lass of Albany. 

Bnt there's a youth, a witless youth, 
That fills the place where she should be ; 

We'll send him o'er to his native shore, 
And bring our ain sweet Albany. 

Alas the day, and wo the day, 

A false usurper w r as the gree, 
Who now commands the towers and lands— 

The royal right of Albany. 
We'll daily pray, we'll nightly pray, 

On bended knees most ferventlie, 
The time may come, with pipe and drum 

We'll welcome hame fair Albany. 



TO MISS FERRIER, 
ENCLOSING THE ELEGY ON SIR J. H. BLAIR. 

Nae heathen name shall I prefix 

Frae Pindns or Parnassus ; 
Auld Reekie dings them a' to sticks, 

For rhyme-inspiring lasses. 
Jove's tunefu' dochters, three times three 

Made Homer deep their debtor ; 
But, gien the body half an ee, 

Nine Ferriers wad done better! 
Last day my mind was in a hog, 

Down George's Street I stoited ; 
A creeping cauld prosaic fog 

My very senses doited. 
Do what I dought to set her free, 

My saul lay in the mire ; 
Ye turned a neuk— I saw your ee— 

She took the wing like Are ! 
The mournfn' sang I here enclose, 

In gratitude I send you ; 
And wish and pray in rhyme sincere, 

A' gude things may attend you ! 

THE TORBOLTON LASSIES. 
If ye gae up to yon hill-tap, 

Yell there see bonie Peggy; 
She kens her father is a laird, 

And she forsooths a leddy. 
There Sophy tight, a lassie bright, 

Besides a handsome fortune : 
Wha canna win her in a night, 

Has little art in courting. 

If she be shy, her sister try, 
Ye'U maybe fancy Jenny, 

If ye'll dispense wi' want o' sense- 
She kens hersel' she's bonie. 

As ye gae up by yon hill-side, 

Speer in for bonie Bessy ; 
She'll gi'e ye a beck, and bid ye light, 

And handsomely address ye. 

EXTEMPORE. 

PINNED TO A LADY'S COACH. 

If you rattle along like your mistress's tongue., 
Your speed will out-rival the dart ; 

But, a fly for your load, you'll break down on the 
road, 
If your stuff be as rotten's her heart. 

'IN VAIN WOULD PRUDENCE.' 
In vain would Prudence, w r ith decorous sneer, 
Point out a cens'ring world, and bid me fear; 
Above that world on wings of love I rise, 
I know its worst— and can that worst despise. 



Wrong'd. injured, shunn'd ; unpitied, unredrest, 
The mock'd quotation of the scorner s jest.' 
Let Prudence direst bodements on me fall, 
Clarinda, rich reward ! o'erpays them all ! 



THE SLAVE'S LAMENT. 

It w T as in sweet Senegal that my foes did me 
enthral, 
For the land of Virginia, O ; 
Torn from that lovely shore, and must never see 
it more, 
And alas I am weary, weary, ! 

All on that charming coast is no bitter snow or 
frost, 
Like the lands of Virginia, O ; 
There streams for ever flow, and there flowers 
for ever blow, 
And alas I am weary, weary, ! 

The burden I must bear, while the cruel scourge 
1 fear, 
In the lands of Virginia, O ; 
And I think on friends most dear, with the bitter, 
bitter tear, 
And alas I am weary, wearv, ! 



GUDEEN TO YOU, KIMMER. 

Gudeen to you, Kimmer, 

And how do ye do ? 
Hiccup, quo' Kimmer, 
The better that I'm fou. 
We're a' noddin, nid nid noddin, 
We're a' noddin at our house at hame. 
Kate sits i' the neuk, 
Suppin' hen broo ; 
Deil tak Kate 
An' she be noddin too ! 
We're a noddin, <&c. 

How's a' wi' you, Kimmer, 

And how do ye fare ? 
A pint o' the best o't, 

And twa pints mair. 
We're a noddin, &c. 

How's a' wi' you, Kimmer, \ 

And how do ye thrive ; 
How mony bairns hae ye ? 

Quo' Kimmer, I hae five, 
We're a noddin, &c. 

Are they a' Johny's ? 

Eh 1 atweel no : 
Twa o' them were gotten 

When Johny w T as awa. 
We're a' noddin, &c. 
Cats like milk, 

And dogs like broo ; 
Lads like lasses weel, 

And lasses lads too. 
We're a' noddin, &c. 



IMPROMPTU. 

How danr ye' ca' me howlet-faced, 

Ye ugly, glowering spectre? 
My face was but the keekin' glass, 

An' there ye saw your picture 

IMPROMPTU. 

At Brownhill we always get dainty good cheer, 
And plenty of bacon each day in the year; 
We've all things that's nice, and mostly in 

season. 
But why always Bacon — come, give me a 

reason ? 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



A FAREWELL, 

Farewell, dear Friend ! may guid luck hit you, 
And, many her favourites admit you! 
It' e'er Detraction shore to smit you, 

May nane believe him ! 
And ony De'il that thinks to get yon, 

Good Lord deceive him. 



'I BURN, I BURN.' 

' I buex, I burn, as when thro' ripen'd corn 

By driving winds the crackling flames are 

borne,' 
Now maddening, wild, I curse that fatal night; 
Now bless the hour which charmed my guilty 

sight. 
In vain the laws their feeble force oppose : 
Chain'd at his feet they groan. Love's vanquish'd 

foes ; 
In vain religion meets my sinking eye ; 
I dare not combat— but 1 turn and fly ; 
Conscience in vain upbraids the unhallow'd fire : 
Love grasps his scorpions— stifled they expire! 
Reason drops headlong from his sacred throne, 
Your (bar idea lvii/ns and reigns alone: 
Each t i 1 1 . 1 1 ■_ 1 1 L ini"::icat<-d homage yields, 
And riots wanton in forbidden lields! 

By all on hjigb adoring mortals know! 
By all the conscious villain fears below ! 
By your dear self !— the last great oath I swear; 
Nor life nor soul were half so dear! 



O THAT I HAD NICER BEEN MARRIED. 

[Written for the Mimical Museum— the chorus is 
old] 

O titat I had ne'er been married, 

I wad never have sic care- 
Now I've gotten wife an' bairns. 
An' they croodie, ever mair. 
Ance croodie, twice croodie. 

Three times croodie in a day; 
Gin ye croodie ony mair, 
Veil croodie a' my meal away. 
Waefu" want an' hunger fley me, ' 

Glowrin' by the hallan en — 
Sair 1 fecht them at the door, 
But ay I'm eerie they come ben. 
Ance croodie, A'e. 



O WERE MY LOVE YON LILAC FAIR. 

[The two last stanzas of this song are old. Burns 
prefixed the two first.] 
Tune—" - Hughie Graham." 
were my love yon lilac fair, 

Wi' purple blossom to the spring; 
And I a bird to shelter there, 

When wearied on my little wing : 
How I wad mourn when it was torn, 
By autumn wild and winter rude ; 
But I wad sing, on wanton wing, 
When youthfu' May its bloom renew'd. 

O gin my love were yon red nose 

That grows upon the castle Ava\ 
And I mysel a drap o' dew, 

Into her bonnie breast to fa': 

O there beyond expression blest, 

I'd feast on beaut v a' the night; 
Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, 

Till fley'd awa by Phoebus' light. 

E X T E M PORE, 

[In answer to an invitation to spend an hour at a 
tavern.] 
THE King's most humble servant, I 

Can scarcely spare a minute ; 
But I'll be wi you by and bye; 
Or else the Dell's be in it. 

THE TOAD-EATER. 

[Spoken to reply to one who was talking largely 

of his noble friends.] 
What of earls with whom you have BUpt, 

And of dukes that you dined with yestreen ? 
Lord ! a louse. Sir, is ^till but a louse, 

Though it crawl on the curl of a queen. 

THE WINTER IT IS PAST. &C. 
[A Fragment.] 
TnE winter it is past, and the summer comes at 
last, 
And the small birds sing on every tree ; 
Now every thing is glad, while I am very sad, 
Since my true love is parted from me. 

upon the brier by the waters running 
clear, 
May have charms for the linnet or the bee ; 
Their little loves arc blest, and their little hearts 
at rest, 
But my true love is parted from me. 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



NO. I. 

TO MISS ELLISON BEGBIE. 

Lochlea, 1783. 
I verily believe, my clear E., that the pure 
genuine feelings of love are as rare in the world 
as the pure genuine principles of virtue and 
piety. This, I hope, will account for the uncom- 
mon style of all my letters to you. By uncom- 
mon, 1 mean, their being written in such a 
serious manner, which, to tell vou the truth, 
has made me often afraid lest you should take 
me for a zealous bigot, who conversed with his 
mistress as he would converse with his minister. 
I don't know how it is, my dear; for though ex- 
cept your company, there is nothing on earth 
that gives me so much pleasure as writing to 
you, yet it never gives me those giddy raptures 
so much talked of among lovers. I have often 
thought, that if a well-grounded affection be not 
really a part of virtue, 'tis something extreinelv 
akin to it. Whenever the thought of my E. 
warms my heart, every feeling of humanity, 
every principle of generositv, kindles in my 
breast. It extinguishes every dirty spark of 
malice and envy, which are but too apt to infest 
me. I grasp every creature in the arms of 
universal benevolence, and equally participate 
in the pleasures of the happy, and" sympathize 
with the miseries of the unfortunate. I as- 
sure you, my dear, I often look up to the divine 
Disposer of events, with an eye of gratitude for 
the blessing which I hope he intends to bestow 
on me, in bestowing you. I sincerely wish that 
he may bless my endeavours to make your life 
as comfortable and happy as possible, both in 
sweetening the rougher parts of my natural 
temper, and bettering the unkindly circum- 
stances of myfortune. This, my dear, isa passion, 
at least in my view, worthy of a man, and I will 
add, worthy of a Christian. The sordid earth- 
worm may profess love to a woman's person, 
whilst, in reality, his affection is centred in her 
pocket; and the slavish drudge may go a-woo- 
ing as he goes to the horse-market, to choose 
one who is stout and Arm, and, as we may say 
of an old horse, one who will be a good drudge 
and draw kindly. I disdain their dirty, puny 
ideas. I would be heartily out of humour with 
myself, if I thought I were capable of having so 
poor a notion of the sex, which were designed to 
crown the pleasures of society. Poor devils ! I 
don't envy them their happiness who have such 
notions. For my part, I propose quite other 
pleasures with my dear partner. 

NO. II. 

TO THE SAME. 
My Deak E.,— 
I do not remember, in the course of your ac- 
quaintance and mine, ever to have heard your 
opinion on the ordinary way of falling in love, 
amongst people of our station of life : I do not 
mean the persons who proceed in the way of 
bargain, -but. those .whose_aflefi£ifia is really 
placed on the person. 
"Though I be, as you know very welL but a 



very awkward lover myself, yet as I have some 
opportunities of observing the conduct of others 
who are much better skilled in the affair of 
courtship than I am, I often think it is owing to 
lucky chance more than to good management, 
that there are not more unhappy marriages 
than usually are. 

It is natural for a young fellow to like the 
acquaintance of the females, and customary for 
him to keep them company when occasion 
serves ; some one of them is more agreeable to 
him than the rest ; there is something, he knows 
not what, pleases him, he knows not how, in her 
company. This 1 take to be what is called love 
with the greatest part of us; and I must own, 
my dear E., it is a hard game such a one as you 
have to play when you meet with such a lover. 
You cannot refuse but he is sincere, and yet 
though yen use him ever sofavourablv. perhaps 
in a few months, or at farthest in a year or two, 
the same unaccountable fancy may make him 
as distractedly fond of another, whilst you are 
quite forgot. I am aware that perhaps the next 
time I have the pleasure of seeing you, you may 
bid me take my own lesson home, and tell. me 
that the passion I have professed for you is per- 
haps one of those transient flashes I have be>en 
describing; but I hope my dear E. you will do 
me the justice to believe me, when I assure you, 
that the love I have for you is founded on the 
sacred principles of virtue and honour; and In- 
consequence, so long as you continue possessed 
of these amiable qualities which first inspired 
my passion for you, so long must I continue to 
love you. Believe me, my dear, it is love like 
this alone which can render the married state 
happy. People may talk of flames and raptures 
as long as they please ; and a warm fancy, with a 
flow of youthful spirits, may make them feel 
something like what thev describe ; but sure I 
am, the nobler faculties of the mind, with 
the kindred feelings of the heart, can onlv be 
the foundation of friendship, and it has always 
been my opinion, that the married life was only 
friendship in a more exalted degree. 

If you will be so good as to grant my wishes, 
and it should please providence to spare us to 
the latest periods of life, and I can look forward 
and see, that even then, though bent down with 
wrinkled age ; even then, when all other 
worldly circumstances will be indifferent to me, 
I will regard my E. with the tenderest affection, 
and for this plain reason, because she is still 
possessed of thosc-noble qualities, improved toa 
much higher degree, which first inspired my 
affection for her. 
' O ! happy state, when souls each other draw 
When love is liberty, and nature law.' 
I know, were I to speak in such a style to man v 
a girl who thinks herself possessed of no small 
share of sense, she would think it ridiculous— 
but the language of the heart is, my dear E., the 
only courtship I shall ever use to you. 

When 1 look over what I have written, I am 
sensible it s vastly different from the ordinary 
style of courtship— but I shall make no apology 
—I know your good nature will excuse what 
your good sense may seem amiss, 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS 



NO. III. 



TO THE SAME. 
My D ea.eE.. — 

I have of ten thought it a peculiarly unlucky cir- 
cumstance in love, that though, in every other 
situation in life, telling the truth is not only the 
safest, but actually by far the easiest, way of 
proceeding, a lover is never under greater 
difficulty in acting, or more puzzled for ex- 
pression, than when his passion is sincere, and 
his intentions are honourable. I do not think 
that it is very difficult for a person of ordinary 
capacity to talk, of love and fondness, which are 
not felt, and to make vows of constancy and 
fidelity which are never intended to be per- 
formed, if he be villain enough to practise such 
detestable conduct ; but to a man whose heart 
glows with the principles of integrity and truth, 
and who sincerely loves a woman of amiable 
person, uncommon refinement of sentiment, and 
purity of manners— to such a one, in such cir- 
cumstances, I can assure you, my dear, from my 
own feelings at this present moment, courtship 
is a task indeed. There is such a number of 
foreboding fears and distrustful anxieties crowd 
into my mind when 1 am in your company, or 
when I sit down to write to you. that what to 
speak or what to write I am altogether at a 
loss. 

There is one rule which I have hitherto prac- 
tised, and which I shall invariably keep with 
yon, and that is, honestly to tell you the plain 
truth. There is something so mean and un- 
lnnnlv in the hearts i.f dissimulation and false- 
hood, that I am sni], lie, i thcycan be used by 
any one in so noble, bo generous, a passion as 
virtuous love. No. my dear E. I shall never en- 
deavour to gain your favour by such detestable 
practices. If you will be so good and generous 
as to admit mo for your partner, your com- 
panion, vimr bosom-friend through life, there 
is nothing on this side ..t eternity shall give me 
greater transport : but 1 shall never think of 
purchasing your hand by any arts unworthy of 
man. and. I will add. of a < 'hristian. There is one 
thing, my dear, which 1 earnestly request of 
you, and' it i-- this: that you would' soon, either 
put an end to my hopes by a peremptory refusal, 
or cure me of my fears b\ a generous consent. 

It would oblige me much if you would send 
me a Line or two when convenient. I shall only 
add further, that if a behaviour regulated 
(though perhaps but very imperfectly) by the 
rules of honour and virtue— if a heart devoted to 
love and esteem you. and an earnest desire to 
promote your happiness : and if these are quali- 
ties you would wish in a friend, in a husband, I 
hope you shall ever find them in your real friend 
and sincere lover. 



TO THE SAME. 
I ought in good manners to have acknow 
the receipt of your letter before this time, but 
my heart was so shocked with the contents of it, 
that I can scarcely yet collect my thoughts so as 
to write to you on the subject. I will not at- 
tempt to describe what I felt on receiving your 
letter. I read it over and over, again and again, 
and though it was in the politest language of re- 
fusal, still it was peremptory: "you were sorrv 
yon could not make me a return, but yon wish 
me'' what, without you I never can obtain, 
•• you wish me all kind of happiness." It would 
he weak and unmanly to say, that without yon I 
never can be happy ; but sure I am, that sharing 
life with you would have given it a relish, that, 
wanting yon, I never can taste. 

Your uncommon personal advantages, and 
your superior good sense, do not so much strike 



me; these, possibly, in a few instances, may be 
met with in others; but that amiable goodness— 
that tender feminine softness— that endearing 
sweetness of disposition, with all the charming 
offspring of a warm feeling heart,— these I 
never again expect to meet with in such a 
degree in this world. All these charming 
qualities, heightened by an education much 
beyond anything I have ever met with in any 
woman I ever dared to approach, have made an 
impression on my heart that 1 do not think the 
world can ever" efface. Mv imagination has 
fondly nattered itself with a wish, 1 dare not say 
it ever reached a hope, that possibly I might one 
dav call you mine. I had formed the most 
delight fuf images, and my fancy fondly brooded 
over them; but now I am wretched for the loss 
of what I really had no right to expect. I must 
now think no more of you as a mistress, still I 
presume to ask to be admitted as a friend. As 
such, I wish to be allowed to wait on you ; and as 
I expect to remove in a few days a little farther 
off— and you, 1 suppose, will perhaps soon leave 
this place, I wish to see vou, or hear from you, 
soon; and if an expression should perhaps es- 
cape me rather too warm for friendship, I hope 

you will pardon it in, my dear Miss , (pardwn 

me the dear expression for once.) . 



NO. V. 

TO MR. JOHN MURDOCH. 

8( .I.M.VSTEt:, 

STAPLES 1XN T BUILDI1KS3, LONDON". 

Locltlee, 15th January, 1783. 
Deaii Sib,— 

As I have an opportunity of sendingyoti a letter 
without putting you to that expense which any 
production of mine would but ill repay, I embrace 
it with pleasure, to tell you that I have not for- 
gotten, nor ever will forget, the many obliga- 
tions! lie under to your kindness and friend- 
ship. 

I do not doubt, sir. but vou will wish to know 
what has been the result of all the pains of an 
indulgent father, and a masterlv teacher; and I 
wMi J could gratify your curiosity with such a 
recital as you would lie pleased with : but that is 
what I am afraid will not be the cose. 1 have. 
indeed, kept pretty clear of vicious habits ; and 
in this respect, I hope, my conduct will not dis- 
grace the education 1 have gotten: but as a man 
of the world. I am most miserably deficient.— 
One would have thought, that, bred as I have 
been, under a father -u ho has figured pretty well 
as int homme <h's affaires, I might have been 
what the world calls a pushing, active fellow; 
but. to tell you the truth, sir. there is hardly 
anything more my reverse. I seem to be one 
sent into the world to see. and observe: audi 
very easilv compound with the knave who 
tricks me of money, if there be any original about 
him which shows me human nature in a diffe- 
rent light from anything I have seen before. In 
short, the joy of my heart is to "study men, 

their mnnnefs. .ind'tlieir wnv?-" and for this 



their manners, and their ways;" and for this 
darling subject, I cheerfully sacrifice every other 
consideration. I am quite indolent about those 
great concerns that set the bustling busy sons of 
care agog: and if I have to answer for the pre- 
sent hour. I am very easy with regard to any- 
thing further. Even the last, worst shift,* of 
the unfortunate and the wretched, does not 
much terrify me: I know that even then my 
talent for what country folks call "a sensible 
crack," when once it is sanctified by a hoary 
head, would procure me so much esteem, that 
even then— I would learn to be happy. How- 



* The last shift alluded to here, must be the 
condition, of an itinerant beggar. 



COItttESPOXDENCii 

ever, I am under no apprehension about that : 
for, though indolent, yet. so far as an extremely 
delicate constitution permits, 1 am not lazy: and 
in many things, especially in tavern matters, i 
am a strict economist ; not indeed for the sake 
of the monev. but one of the principal parts in. 
uiv composition is a kind of pride of stomach. 
and I scorn to fear the face of any man living; 
above everything. I abhor, as hell, the idea, of 
sneaking in a corner to avoid a dnn— possibly 
; oine pitiful, sordid wretch," who in my heart I 
despise and detest. "Tis this, and this alone, 
that endears economy. In the matter of books, 
indeed, I amverv profuse. My favourite authors 
are of the sentimental kind— such as "Shen- 
stone," particularly his "Elegies ;" "Thomson;" 
'•Man of Feeling,' - — a book I prize next to the 
Bible; "Man of the World:" ''Sterne," espe- 
cially nis ••Sentimental Journey;" "Macpher- 
son," "Ossian," <tc. These are the glorious 
models after which I endeavour to form my con- 
duct; and 'tis incongruous, 'tis absurd, to sup- 
pose that the man whose mind glows with 
Sentiments lightened up at their sacred flame— 
the man whose heart distends with benevolence 
to all the human race— he "who can soar above 
this little v scene of things,"— can he descend to 
mind the paltry concerns about which the teme- 
lilial race fret, and fume, and vex themselves'/ 

how the glorious triumph swells my heart ! I 
forget that 1 am a poor insignificant devil, un- 
noticed and unknown, stalking up and down 
fairs and markets, when I happen to be in them, 
reading a page or two of mankind, and " catch- 
ingthe manners living as they rise," whilst the 
men of business jostle me on every side as an 
idle encumbrance in their way.— But I dare say 

1 have by this time tired your patience ; so 1 
shall conclude with begging you to give Mrs. 
Murdoch, not my compliments, for that is a 
mere common-place story, but my warmest, 
kindest wishes for her welfare; and accept of 
the same for yourself, from. 

Dear sir, 

Yours, &c. 



[The following is taken from the MS. prose pre- 
sented by our Bard to Mr. Riddel.] 

Ox rummaging over some old papers, I lighted 
on a MS. of my early years, in which I had deter- 
mined to write myself out, as I was placed by 
fortune among a class of men to whom my ideas 
would have been nonsense. I had meant that 
the book should have lain by me, in the fond 
hope that, some time or other, even after I was 
no more, my thoughts would fall into the hands 
of somebody capable of appreciating thier value. 
It sets off thus : 

Observations, Hints. Songs, Scraps of Poetry, &c, 
by li. IS— a man who had little art in making 
money, and still less in keeping it; but was". 
however, a man of some sense, and a great deal 
of honesty, and unbounded good-will to every 
creature, rational and irrational. Ashe was but 
little indebted to scholastic education, and bred 
at a plough-tail, his performances must be 
strongly tinctured with his unpolished rustic 
way of life : but as I believe they are really his 
own, it may be some entertainment to a curious 
observer of human nature, to see how a plough- 
man thinks and- feels, under the pressure of love, 
ambition, anxiety, grief, with the like cares and 
passions, which, however diversified by the 
modes and manners of life, operate pretty much 
alike. I believe, on all the species. 

"TlKM-care numbers in the world who do not 
want sense, to make a figure, so much as an 
opinion of their own abilities, to put them upon 
rceoittiiig their own observations, and allowing 



int."— Shenstoxe. 
" Pleasing, when youth is long expired, to trace 

The forms our pencil, or our pen designed : 
Such was our youthful air. and shape, and face, 
Such the soft image of our youthful mind." 
—Ibid. 

April, 1793. 

Notwithstanding all rh it has been said against 
love, respecting the fells- and weakness it leads 
a young inexperienced mind into, still I think it 
in a great measure derives the highest enco- 
miums that have been passed on it. If anything 
on earth deserves the mime of rapture or trans- 
port, it is the feelings of green eighteen, in the 
company of the mistress of his heart, when slu* 
repays him with an equal return of affection. 
August. 

There is certainly some connection between 
love, and music, and poetry: and, therefore, I 
have always thought a fine touch of nature that 
passage in a modern love composition: 

"As tow'rd her cot lie jogg'd along, 
Her name was frequent in his song." 

for my own part, I never had the least thought 
or inclination of turning poet till I once got 
heartily in love ; and then rhyme and song were. 
in a manner, the spontaneous language of my 
heart. 

September. 

I entirely agree with that judicious philoso- 
pher. Mr. Smith, in his excellent "Theory of 
Moral Sentiments." that remorse is the most 
painful sentiment that can embitter the human 
bosom. Any ordinary pitch of fortitude may 
bear up tolerably well, under these calamities, 
in the procurement of which we ourselves have 
had no hand; but when our follies or crimes 
have made us miserable and wretched, to bear 
no with manly firmness, and at the same time 
have a pro; ef penitential sense of our miscon- 
duct, is a glorious effort of self-command. 

Of all the nu 

That nress tl 
guish, 
Beyond comparison the worst are those 
That to our folly or our guilt we owe. 
In every other circumstance the mind 
Has this to say—" It was no deed of mine;" 
But when to all the evil of misfortune 
This sting is added— "Blame thy foolish self! ' 
Or worser far, the pangs of keen remorse ; 
The torturing, gnawing, consciousness of guilt — 
Of guilt perhaps, where we've involved others; 
The young, the innocent, who fondly loved us. 
Xay, more, that very love their cause of ruin ! 
O burning hell ! in all thy store of torments, 
There's not a keener lash 1 

Lives there a man so firm. who. while his heart 
Feels all the bitter horror- of his crime, 
Can reason down its agonising throbs ; 
And. after proper purpose of amendment, 
Can firmly force his jarring thoughts to peace ! 
O, happy! happy! enviable man! 
O glorious magnanimity of souL 

March, 1784. 
I have often observed, in the course of my ex- 
perience of human life, that every man, even the 
worst, has something good about him: though 
very often nothing else than a happy tempera- 
ment of constitution inclining him to this or that 
virtue. Fortius reason, no man can say in what 
degree any other person, besides himself, can be, 
with strict justice, called wicked. Let any of 
the strictest character for regularity of conduct 
among us. examine impartially how many vices 



r been 
lance, but foi 



t f re 



136 



BURNS' POETICAL WORK* 



accidental circumstance interyening : how many 
of the weaknesses of mankind he lias escaped, 
because he was out of the hue of snch tempta- 
tion : and what often, if not always, weighs more 
than all the rest, how much he is indebted to 
the world's good opinion, because the world does 
not know all: 1 say. any man who can thus 
think, will scan the failings, nay. the faults and 
crimes, of mankind around him with a brother's 
eye. 

1 have often courted the acquaintance of that 
part of mankind commonly known by the ordi- 
nary phrase of blackguards, sometimes further 
than was consistent with the safety of my cha- 
racter: those who. by thoughtless prodigality 
or headstrong passions, have been driven to 
ruin. Though disgraced by follies, nay, some- 
times "stained with guilt, . 
1 have yet found among them, in not a fewin- 
stances, some of the noblest virtues, magnani- 
mity, generosity, disinterested friendship, and 
even modesty. 



As 1 am what the men of the world, if they 
know sueli a man. wonld call fl whimsical mortal. 
I have various sources of pleasure and enjoy- 
ment, which are. in a manner, peculiar to my- 
self, or some here and there such oth 
the-waj' person. Such is the peculiar pleasure 
1 take in the seaso > of the winter, more than the 
rest of the rear. This, ! believe, may be partly 
owing to inv : -. ing my mind a 

melancholy cast; bat there is something in 
the 

"Mighty temj est, and th 

Abrupt and deep, stretch'd o'er the buried 
earth,"— 

which r nblimity, 

favourable ;oever.\ thing great and noble. There 

do not know if 1 should call it pleasure— but 
something which exalts me, something which 
enraptures me— than to walk in the sheltered 
side of the wood, or high plantation, In a cloudy 
winter-day, and hear the stormy wind howling 
among the trees, and raving over the plain. It 
is my best season for devotion: mv mind is 
wrapped np in a kind of enthusiasm to Him. 
who, in the pompous language of i lie Hebrew 
bard, "walks on the wings of the wind." In one 
of these seasons, just after a train of misfortunes. 
1 composed the following:— 

The wintry west extends his blast, &c 

Shenstone finally observe-, that love-verses, 
writ without any r< il passion, arc the most 
nauseous of all conceits; and 1 have often 
thought that no man can be a proper critic of 
love-composition, except he himself, in one or 
more instances, have been a warm \ 
this passion. As 1 had been all along a miserable 
dupe to love, and have been led into a thousand 
weaknesses and follies by it, for that reason 1 
1 ut the more confidence in my critical skill, in 
distinguishing foppery, and conceit, from real 
and nature/ Whether the following 
song will stand the test. 1 will nor pretend to 
say. because it is my own : only 1 can say it was, 
at the time, genuine from the. heart. 
Behind yon hills, ifcc. 

See Songs. 

1 think the whole species of young men may 
be naturaHy enough divided into two grand 
which I shall call the grave and the 
merry : though, by-the-bye. these terms do not 
with propriety enough express my idea-. The 
grave I shall cast into the usual division of those 



who are goaded on by the love of money, and 
whose darling wish is to make a figure in the 
world. The merry are. the men of pleasure of 
all denominations : the jovial lads, who have too 
much fire and spirit to have any settled rule of 
action : but, without, much deliberation, follow 
the strong impulses of nature: the thoughtless, 
the careless, the indolent— in particular, he who. 
with a happy sweetness of natural temper, and 
a cheerful vacancy of thought, steals through 
life— generally, indeed, in poverty and obscurity; 
but poverty and obscurity are only evils to him 
who" can sit down and make a repining compari- 
son between his own situation and that of 
others; and lastly, to grace the quorum, such 
■ally, those whose heads are capable of 
all the toweringsof genius, and whose hearts are 
warmed with all the delicacy of feeling. 



As the grand end of human life is to cultivate. 
an intercourse with that Being to whom we owe 
life, with every enjoyment that can render life 
delightful; and to maintain an integritive con- 
duct towards our fellow-creatures, that so, In- 
forming piety and virtue into habit, we may be 
fit members for the society of the pious and the 
good, which reason and revelation teach us to 
expect beyond the grave: i do not see that the 
turn of the mind, and pursuits of any son of 
poverty and obscurity, are in the least more 
inimical to thesacred interests of piety and vir- 
tue, than the even lawful, bustling and straining 
after the world's riches and honours; and I do 
not sec, but that he may gain Heaven 
(which, by-the-bye, is no mean consideration) 
through the vale of life amusing him- 
self with every little flower that fortune throws 
: as he who, coming straightforward, 
and perhaps bespattering all about him, gains 
■ 's little eminences; where, after all, 
he can only see and be seen a little more con- 
spiciously than what, in the pride of his heart, 
o terni the poor, indolent, devil he has 
left behind him. 



There is a nol I heart-rending 

tenderni r.n.i.nt ballads, which 

shows them to be the work of a masterly hand; 
and it has often given me many a heart-ache to 
reflect, that such glorious old bards— bards who 
very probably owed all their talent to native 
have described the exploits of heroes 
- of disappointment, and the meltings of 
love, with such fine strokes of nature— that 
their very nanus (0 how mortifying to a bard's 
vanity) are now '-buried among the wreck of 
things which were." 

ve illustrious names unknown! who could 
feel *so strongly and describe so well: the last, 
the meanest of the muses' train— one who, 
though far inferior to your flights, yet eyes your 
path, and with a trembling wing would some- 
times soar after yon— a poor rustic bard un- 
known, pays this sympathetic pang to your 
memory! Some of you tell us, with all the 
charms of verse, that vou have been unfortunate 
in the world— unfortunate in love: h-? too has 
felt the loss of his little fortune, the I 
friends, and. worse than all, the loss of the 
woman he adored. Like you. all his consolation 
was his muse. She taught him in rustic m 
to complain.— Happy could he have done it with 
your strength of imagination and flow of verse. 
May the turf lie lightly on your bones ! and may 
you now enjoy that solace and rest which tins 
world seldom gives to the heart, tuned to all the 
feelings of poesy and love ! 



CCXRBESPONDEXCE OF BUBNS. 



XO. VII. 



TO Mil. AIKEN. 

[The Gentleman to whom the Cotter's Satck- 
day Nigiit is addressed.] 

Ayrshire, 1786. 
Sift — 

I was with Wilson, my printer, t'other day, and 
settled all our bygone matters between us. 
After I had paid him all demands, i made him 
an offer of the second edition, on the hazard of 
being paid out of the first and readiest, which he 
declines. By >_is account the paper of a thousand 
copies would cost about twenty-seven pounds, 
and the printing about fifteen or sixteen: he 
offers to agree to this for the printing, if I will 
advance for the paper; but this, you know, is 
out of my power ; so farewell hopes of a second 
edition till I grow richer!— an epocha which. I 
think, will arrive at the pavment of the British 
national debt. 

There is scarcely anything hurts me so much 
in being disappointed of my second edition, as 
not having it in my power to" show m v gratitude 
to Mr. Ballai 

" The Brigs of Ayr." I would detest myself as a 
wretch if I thought I were capable, in a very 
long life, of forgetting the honest, warm, and 
tender delicacy with which he enters into my 
interests. I am sometimes pleased with myself 
in my grateful sensations : but believe, on the 
whole, I have very little merit in it, as my 
gratitude is not a virtue, the consequence of 
reflection, but sheerly the instinctive emotion of 
a heart too inattentive to allow worldly maxims 
and views to settle into selfish habits. 

I have been feeling all the various rotations 
and movements within, respecting the excise. 
There are many things plead strongly against 
it; the uncertainty of getting soon into business, 
the consequences "of my follies, which may per- 
haps make it impracticable for me to stay at 
home- and besides, I have for some time been 
pining under secret wretchedness, from causes 
which you pretty well know— the pang of disap- 
pointment, the sting of pride, with some wan- 
dering stabs of remorse, which never fail to 
settle on my vitals like vultures, when attention 
is not called away by the calls of society or the 
vagaries of the muse. Even in the hour of 
social mirth, my gaiety is the madness of an 
intoxicated criminal under the hands of the 
executioner. All these reasons urge me to go 
abroad ; and to all these reasons I have only one 
answer— the feelings of a father. This, in the 
present mood I am in, overbalances everything 
that can be laid in the scale against it. 

You may perhaps think it an extravagant 
fancy, but it is a sentiment which strikes home 
to my very soul : though sceptical, in some 
points, of our current belief, yet, I think, I have 
every evidence for the reality of a life beyond 
the stinted bourne of our present existence ; if 
so, then how should I, in the presence of that 
tremendous Being, the Author of existence, how 
should I meet the reproaches of those who stand 
to me in the dear relation of children, whom I 
deserted in the smiling innocency of helpless 
infancy? O, thou great unknown Power! thou 
Almighty God! who has lighted up reason in my 
breast, and blessed me with immortality! I 
have frequently wandered from that order and 
regularity necessary for the perfection of Thv 
works, yet Thon hast never left me nor forsaken 
me ! 



Since I wrote the foregoing sheet, I have seen 
something of the storm of mischief thickening 
over my folly-devoted head. Should you, my 
friends, my benefactors, be successful in your 
applications for me, perhaps it may not be in my 



i nour or my 

1 c ire i! instances 

nd offer, or, en- 

entaii ' farther 



reason for this 
n . ral has been 
ts. 1 was, for 
the pining, dis- 
ro. I saw mv- 
of life, shrink- 



niisery— 

To tell the truth. 1 nave- 
last complaint, as the wurl 
kind to me, fully up to my 
some time past, fast getthu 
trustful snarl of the misa 
self alone, unfit for the sti . 
ing at every rising cloud in the cha nee-directed 
atmosphere of fortune, while, all defenceless, I 
look about in vain for a cover. It never oc- 
curred to me, at least never with the force it 
deserved, that this world is a busy scene, and 
man a creature destined for progressive strug- 
gle : and that, however I might possess a warm 
heart and inoffensive manners (which last, by 
the bye, was rather more than I could well 
boast) still more than these passive qualities, 
there was something to be done. When all my 
schoolfellows and youthful compeers (those 
misguided few excepted, who joined, to use a 
Gehtoo phrase, the hallachores of the human 
race) were striking off with eager hope and 
earnest intent on some one or other of the many 
paths of busy life, I was "standing idle in the 
market-place, 7 ' or left the chase of the butterfly 
from flower to flower to hunt fancy from whim 
to whim. 

Yon see, sir, that to know one's errors were a 
probability of mending them, I stand a fair 
chance ; but according to the reverend West- 
minster divines, though conviction must pre- 
cede conversion, it is very far from always im- 
plying it. 



TO MRS. DT3LOP, OF DUXLOP. 

Ayrshire, 1736. 
MAPAjr,- 
I am truly sorry I was not at home yesterday 
when Iwn s'so much horn aired with yi >ur order for* 
my copies, and incomparably more" by the hand- 
some compliments you are pleased" to pay my 
poetic abilities. I am fully persuaded that there 
is not any class of mankind so feelingly alive to 
the titrations of applause as the sons of Par- 
nassus ; nor is it easy to conceive how the heart 
of the poor bard dances with rapture • when 
those whose character in life gives them a right 
to be polite judges honour him with their 
approbation. Had you been thoroughly ac- 
quainted with me. Madam, you could not have 
touched my darling heart-chord more sweetly 
than noticing my attempts to celebrate your 
illustrious ancestor the Saviour of his country. 
"Great patriot hero ! ill requited chief !' : 
The first book I met with in my early years, 
which I perused with pleasure, was "The Life 
of Hannibal;" 'the next was "The History of Sir 
William Wallace:' for several of my "earlier 
years I had few other authors ; and many a soli- 
tary hour have I stole out, after the laborious 
vocations of the day, to shed a tear over their 
glorious but unfortunate stories. In these boyish 
days, I remember in particular being struck with 
that part of Wallace's story where these lines 
occur :— 



1 chose a fine summer Sunday, the onlv clay 
my line of life allowed, and 'walked half a 
dozen miles to pay my respects to the Leglen 



118 



BURNS POETICAL WORK* 



wood, With as much devout enthusiasm as ever 
pilgrim did to Loretto; and, as I explored every 
den and dell where I could suppose my heroic 
countryman to have lodged, I recollect (for even 
then i was a rhymer) that my heart glowed 
with a wish to be able to make a song on him in 
some measure equal to his merits. 

NO. IX 

TO MRS. STEWART, OF STAIR. 

Madam,— 1786. 

The hurry of my preparations for going abroad 
lias hindered me from performing my promise 
so soon as I intended. I have here sent you a 
parcel of songs, etc., which|never made their ap- 
pearance, except to a friend or two at most. 
Perhaps some of them may be no great enter- 
tainment to you : but of that I am far from being 
an adequate judge. The song to the tune of 
Ettrick Banks, you will easily see the impropriety 
of exposing much even in manuscript. I think, 
myself, it has some merit, both as a tolerable 
description of one of Nature's sweetest scenes, 
a July evening, and one of the finest pieces of 
Nature's workmanship, the finest indeed we 
know anything of, an amiable, beautiful young 
woman; bill 1 have no common friend to procure 
me that permission, without which I would not 
dare to spread the copy. 

I am quite aware, madam, what task the world 
would assign me in this letter. The. obscure 
bard, when any of the great condescend to take 
notice of him, should heap the altar with the 
incense of flattery. Their hi-h ancestry, their 
own great and godlike qualities an 
should be recounted with the most exaggerated 
description. This, madam, is a task for which I 
am altogether unlit, lie-ides a certain dis- 
qualifying pride of heart. I know nothing of your 
connections in life, and have no ace- s to where 
voiir real character is to be found— the company 
of your compeers : and more. I am afraid that 
even the most refined adulation i> by no means 
the road to your good opinion. 

one feature of your character 1 shall ever 
with grateful pleasure remember— the reception 
I got. when I had the honour of waiting on vou 
at Stair I am little acquainted with pi 
but I know a good deal of benevolence of temper 
and goodness of heart. Surely, did those in 
exalted stations know how happy they could 
make some classes of their inferiors by con- 
descension and affability, they would never 
stand so high, measuring out with every look 
I he height of their elevation, but condescend as 
sweetly as did Mrs. Stewart of Stair. 



NO. X. 

TO MR. CHALMERS. 

Edinburgh, 27th Dec. 1786. 
My Dear Friend,— 

•■ I confess 1 have sinned the sin for which there 
is hardly any forgiveness— ingratitude to friend- 
ship—in not writing you sooner; but of all men 
living. I had intended to send you an entertain- 
ing letter: and by all the* plodding, stupid 
powers , that in nodding conceited majesty pre- 
side over the dull routine of business— a heavily 
solemn oath this!— I am. and have been ever 
since I came to Edinburgh, as unfit to write a 
letter of humour as to write a commentary on 
the •• Revelations." 



To make you some amends for what, before 
you reach, this paragraph, you will have 
suffered. I inclose you two poems I have carded 
and spun since I past Glenbuck. One blank to 

the address to Edinburgh. '-Fair B ,"isthe 

heavenly Miss Burnett, daughter to Lord Mon- 



boddo, at whose house I have had the honour to 
be more than once. There has not been any- 
thing nearly like her, in all the combinations of 
beauty, grace, and goodness, the great Creator 
has formed, since Milton's Eve on the first day 
of her existence. 

I have sent you a parcel of suscriptioh-bills, 
and have written to Mr. Ballantine and Mr. 
Aiken, to call on you for some of them, if they 
want them. My direction is— Care of Andrew 
Bruce, merchant, Bridge Street. 



TO THE EARL OF EGLTNTON. 

Edinburgh, Jaituary, 1787. 
Mt Lord,— 
A- 1 have but slender pretensions to philosophy, 
I cannot rise to the exalted idea of a citizen of 
the world: but have all those national preju- 
dices which, I believe, glow peculiarly strong in 
the breast of a Scotchman. There is scarcely 
anything to which I am so feelingly alive, as 
the honour and welfare of my country; and, as 
a poet, I have no higher enjoyment than sing- 
ing her sons and daughters. Fate had cast mv 
s:at ion in the veriest shades of life; but never 
did a heart pant more ardently than mine, to be 
distinguished: though, till very lately, I looked 
in vain on every side for a ray of light. It is 
easy, then, to guess how much I was gratified 
with the countenance and approbation of one of 
ray country's most illustrious sons, when Mr. 
Wauchope called on me yesterday, on the part 
of vour lordship. Your munificence, my lord, 
certainly deserves my very grateful acknow- 
ledgments; but your patronage is a bounty 
pcculiary] suited to my feelings. 1 am not 
ma-tcr enough of the etiquette of life to know 
whether there be not some impropriety in 
troubling your lordship with mv thanks; but 
my heart 'whispered me to do it. From the 
emotions of my inmost soul I doit. Selfish in- 
gratitude, I hope. 1 am incapable Of; and mer- 
cenary servility. I trust. 1 shall ever have so 
much honest pride as to detest. 

no. xii. 
TO MRS, DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 15th January, 1787. 
Madam,— 

Yours of the 9th current, which I am this 
moment honoured with, is a deep reproach to 
me for ungrateful neglect. I will tell you the 
real truth, for I am miserably awkward at a fib; 
I wished to have written to L>r. Moore before i 
wrote to you; but though, every dav sine- I 
received yours of December 30th, the idea, t la- 
wish to write him. has constantly pressed on 
mv thoughts, vet I could not for my soul s e r 
ab'out it. I know his fame and character, and I 
am one of '-the sons of little men."' To write 
him a mere matter-of-fact affair, like a mer- 
chant's order, would be disgracing the little 
character I have: and to write the author of 
"The Yiew of Society and Manners" a letter of 
sentiment— I declare every artery runs cold at 
the thought. I spall try, however, to write him 
to-morrow or next day." His kind interposition 
in mv behalf 1 have "already experienced, as a 
gentleman waited on me the other day. on the 
part of Lord Eglinton, with ten guineas by way 
of subscription for two copies of my next edi- 
tion. 

The Avord you object to in the mention I have 
made of mv glorious countryman and your im- 
mortal ancestor, is indeed borrowed from 
Thompson: but it does not strike me as an im- 
proper epithet. I distrusted my own judgment 
on your finding fault with it, and applied for the 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



133 



opinion of some of the literati here, who honour 
me with their critical strictures, and they all 
allow it to be proper. The song you ask 1 "can- 
not recollect, and 1 have not a copy of it. I have 
not composed anything on the great Wallace, 
except what you have seen in print, and the en- 
closed, which I will print in this edition.* You 
will see I have mentioned some others of the 
name. When I composed my •'Vision," long 
ago, I had attempted a description of Kyle, of 
which the additional stanzas are a part, as it 
originally stood. My heart grows with a wish 
to be able to do justice to the merits of the 
"Saviour of his Countrv," which, sooner or 
later, I shall at least attempt. 

Yon are afraid I shall grow intoxicated with 
my prosperity as a poet. Alas ! madam, 1 know 
myself and the world too well. I do not mean 
any airs of affected modesty; I am willing to 
believe that my abilities deserved some notice: 
but in a most enlightened, informed age and 
nation, wdien poetry is and has been the study 
of men of the first natural genius aided w r ith all 
the powers of polite learning, polite books, and 
polite company— to be dragged forth to the full 
glare of learned and polite observation, with all 
my imperfections of awkward rusticity and 
crude unpolished ideas on my head— 1 assure 
you, madam, I do not dissemble when I tell yon 
I tremble for the consequences. The novelty of 
a poet in my obscure situation, without any of 
those advantages which arc reckoned necessary 
for that character, at least at this time of day, 
has raised a partial tide of public notice, which 
has borne me to a height wiiere 1 am absolutely, 
feeling certain, my abilities are inadequate to 
support me; and too surely do I see that time 
when the same tide will leave me, and recede, 
perhaps, as far below T the mark of truth. 

Your patronizing me, and interesting yourself 
in my fame and character as a poet, 1 rejoice in 
it; it exalts me in ray own idea: and whether 
you can or cannot aid me in my subscription is 
a trifle. Has a paltry subscription bill any 
charms to the heart of a bard, compared with 
the patronage of the decendant of the immortal 
Wallace ? 



NO. XIII. 
TO DR. MOOP.E. 



1787. 



Sir,- 

Mrs. Dunlop has been so kind as to send me ex- 
tracts of letters she has had from you, where 
you do the rustic bard tbe honour of noticing 
liim and his works. Those who have felt the 
anxieties and solicitudes of authorship, can onlv 
know what pleasure it gives to. be noticed in 
such a manner by judges of the first character. 
Y'our criticisms, sir, I receive with reverence: 
only, I am sorry they mostly came too late ; a 
peccant passage or two, that I would certainlv 
nave altered, were gone to press. 

The hope to be admired for ages, is in by far 
the greater part of those even who are authors 
of repute, an unsubstantial dream. For my 
part, my first ambition was, and still my strong- 
est hope is, to please my compeers, the rustic 
inmates of the hamlet, while ever changing 
languages and manners shall allow me to be 
relished and understood. I am very willing to 
admit that I have some poetical abilities; and 
as few, if any writers, either moral or poetical, 
are intimately acquainted with the classes of 
mankind among whom I have chiefly mingled, 
I may have seen men and manners in a different 



* Stanzas in the Vision, beginning third 
stanza. -Ev statelv tower or palace fair " and 
ending with the first duan. 



phasis from what is common, which may assist 
originality of thought. Still I know very well 
the novelty of my character has by far the 
greatest share in the learned and polite notice 
1 have lately had ; and in a language where 
Pope and Churchill have raised the laugh, and 
Shenstone and Gray drawn the tear— where 
Thomson and Beattie have painted the land- 
scape, and Lyttleton and Collins described the 
heart, 1 am not vain enough to hope for dis- 
tinguished poetic fame. 



NO. XIV. 

FROM DR. MOORE. 

Clifford Street, January 23, 1787. 
Sir,— 

I have just received your letter, by which I 
find I have reason to complain of my friend Mrs. 
Dunlop for transmitting to vou extracts from 
my letters to her, by much too freely and too 
carelessly written for your perusal. 1 must for- 
give her, however, in 'consideration of her good 
intention, as you will forgive me, I hope, for the 
freedom I use with certain expressions, in con- 
sideration of my admiration of the poems in 
general. If I may judge of the author's dispo- 
sition from his works, with all the other good 
qualities of a poet, he has not the irritable tem- 
per ascribed to that race of men by one of their 
own number, whom you have the happiness to 
resemble in ease and curious felicity of expres- 
sion. Indeed, the poetical beauties, however 
original and brilliant, and lavishly scattered, are 
not all I admire in your works ; the love of your 
native country, that feeling sensibility to all the 
objects of humanity, and the independent spirit 
which breathes through the whole, give me a 
most favourable impression of the poet, and 
have made me often regret that I did not see the 
poems, the certain effect of which would have 
been my seeing the author last summer when I 
was longer in Scotland than I have been for 
many years. 

I rejoice very sincerely at the encouragement 
you receive at Edinburgh, and I think you pecu- 
liarly fortunate in the patronage of Dr. Blair, 
who, 1 am informed, interests himself very much 
for you. I beg to be remembered to him : no- 
body can have a warmer regard for that gentle- 
man than I have, which, independent of the 
worth of his character, would be kept alive by 
the memory of our common friend, the late Mr. 
George B e. 

Before I received your letter, I sent enclosed 

in a letter to . a sonnet by Miss Williams, a 

young poetical lady, which she wrote on reading 
your Mountain-Daisy: perhaps it may not dis- 
please you.* 

L have been [trying to add to 'the number of 
subscribers, but I find many of my acquaintance 



* The sonnet is as follows: — 
While soon the garden's flaunting flowers 
decay. 

And scattered on the earth neglected lie. 
The "Mountain-Daisy" cherished by the ray 

A poet drew from heaven, will never die. 
Ah. like that lonely flower the poet rose'/ 

'Mid penury's bare soil and bitter gale; 
He felt each storm that on the mountain blows, 

Nor ever knew the shelter of the vale. 
Bv genius in her native vigour nurst, 

Oh nature with impassion'd look he gazed ; 
Then through the cloud of adverse fortune 
burst 

Indignant, and in light unborrow'd blazed. 

:otia ! from rude affliction shield thy bard. 
His heaven-taught number Fame lierseU will 



140 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



are already among them. I have only to add, 
that with every sentiment of esteem and most 
cordial good wishes, 

lam, 
Your obedient humble servant, 

J. Moore. 



no. xv. 
TO DR. MOORE. 
Edinburgh, 15th, February, 1787. 
Reverend Sir,— 
Pardon my seeming neglect in delaying so long 
to acknowledge the honour you have done me, 
in your kind notice of me, January 23r 



any i 



i I 1 



than f< 

thing higher i turn a distant acquaintance with a 
country clergyman. Men- greatness never em- 
barrasses me: 1 have nothing to ask from the 
great, and I do not fear their judgment; but 
genius, polished by learning, and at its proper 
point of elevation in the eye of the world, this of 
late I frequently meet with, and tremble at its ap- 
proach. I scorn the affection of seeming modesty 
to cover self-conceit. That I have some merit. I 
do not deny: but 1 see. with frequent wringings 
of heart, that the novelty of my character, and 
the honest national prejudice of my eountrv men. 
have borne me to a height altogether untenable 
to my abilities. 

For the honour Miss W. has done me, please, 
sir. return her in my name my most grateful 
thanks, i have more than once thought of pay- 
ing her in kind, but have hitherto quitted the 
idea in hopeless despondency. 1 had never be- 
fore heard of her; but the other day i gol h< r 
poems, which, for several reasons, som 
Ingtothe head, and others the offspring of the 
heart, give me a great deal of pleasure. I have 

little pretensions to critic lore: there are, I 

think, two characteristic features in h 

—the unfettered wild flight of native genius, and 

the querulous, sombre tenderness of tux 

sorrow. 

I onlyknow what phases me, of ten without 
being a'ble to tell why. 



so. xvi. 
FROM DR. MOORE. 
Clifford Street, 28th February, 1787. 
Dear Sir,— 

Your letter of the 15th gave me a great deal of 
pleasure. It is not surprising that you improve 
in correctness and taste, considering where you 
have been for some time past. And I dare swear 
there is no danger of your admitting any polish 
which might weaken the vigour of your native 
powers. 

I am glad that you disdain the nauseous affect- 
tution of decrying your own merit as a poet — an 
affectation which is displayed with most osten- 
tation bythose who have the greatest share of 
self conceit, and which only adds undeceiving 
falsehood to disgusting vanity. For yon to deny 
the merit of your poems would be arraigning the 
fixed opinion of the public. 

As the new edition of my " View of Society " 
is not yet ready. I have sent you the former 
edition* which I beg von will accept as a mark of 
my esteem. It is sent by sea. to the care of Mr. 
Creech ; and along with these four volumes 
for yourself, I have abo sent mv "Medical 
Sketches,"' in one volume, for mv friend Mrs. 
Dunlop of Dunlop: this you will be so obliging 
as to transmit, or if yon chance to pass soon by 
Dunlop. to give her. 

I am happy to hear that your subscription is 
so ample, and shall rejoice at every piece of for- 
tune that befalls you: for you arc a very great 



favourite in my family; and this is a higher 
compliment than perhaps you are aware of. It 
includes almost all the professions, and of course 
is a proof that your writings are adapted to 
various tastes and situations. My youngest son 
who is at Winchester school, writes to me that 
he is translating some stanzas of your "Hallow- 
een" into Latin verse, for the benefit of his 
comrades. This union of taste partly proceeds, 
no doubt, from the cement of Scottish partiality, 
with which they arc all somewhat tinctured. 
Even your traiisio(or,whole(t Scotland too early 
in life for recollection, is not without it. 



I remai 



i, with great sincerity, 
r obedient servant, 

J. MOORK. 



NO. XVI f. 
TO THE EARL OF OLENCAIKN. 
My Lord, — Edinburgh, 1787. 

I wanted to purchase a profile of your lordship, 
which I was told was to be got in town; but I 
am truly sorry to see that a blundering painter 
lias spoiled a •■human face divine." The en- 
closed stanzas I intended to have writ ten below 
.•I i id ure or profile of your lordship, could I have 
been so happy as to procure one with anything 
of a liken 

As I will soon return to my shades, I wanted 
to have something like a material object for my 
gratitude: 1 wanted to have it in my power to 
say to a friend. •• There is my noble patron, my 
generous benefactor." Allow me, my lord, to 
publish these verses. 1 conjure your lordship, 
by the honest throe of gratitude, by the gene- 
rous wish of benevolence, by all the throes and 
feelings which compose the magnanimous mind, 
do not deny me this petition.* I owe to your 
lordship: aiidwhat lias not in some instances 
always been the case with me, the weight of the 
obligation is a pleasing load. I trust. I have a 
heart as independent as your lordship's, than 
which I can say nothing more; and I would not 
be beholden to favours that would crucify my 
feelings. Your dignified character in life, and 
manner of supporting that character, arc flatter- 
ing to my pride ; and I would be jealous of the 
purity of my grateful attachment, where I was 
under the patronage of one of the much favoured 
sons of fortune. 

Almost every poet has celebrated his patrons, 
particularly when they were names dear to 
fame, aad illustrious in their country: allow 
me, then, my lord, if you think the ver 
intrinsic merit, to tell the world how much I 
have the honour to be 

Y'our lordship's highly indebted, 

And ever grateful humble servant. 



NO. XXVIII. 

TO THE EARL OF BUCIIAX. 
My Lord,— 
The honour your lordship lias done me, by your 
notice and advice in yours of the 1st instant, I 
shall ever gratefully remember : 

'Praise from thy lips 'tis mine with joy to boast, 
They best can give it who deserve it most.' 

Your lordship touches the darling chord of my 
heart when you advise me to fire my muse at 
Scottish story and Scottish scenes. I wish for 
nothing more than to make a leisurely pilgri- 
mage through my native country: to 
mnse on those.onee hard-contended fields, where 

* It does not appear that the earl granted this 
request, nor have the verses alluded to ever 
been found among the MSS, 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS- 



141 



Caledonia, rejoicing, saw her bloody lion borne 
through broken ranks to victory and fame ; and. 
catching the inspiration, to pour the deathless 
names in song. But, my lord, in the midst of 
these enthusiastic reveries, a long-visaged, dry, 
moral-looking phantom strides across my ima- 
gination, and pronounces these emphatic words, 
"I, Wisdom, dwell with prudence." 

This, my lord, is unanswerable. I must re- 
turn to my humble station, and woo my rustic 
muse in my wonted wav at the plough-tail. 
Still, mv lord, while the drops of life warm my 
heart, gratitude to that dear-loved country in 
which I boast mv birth, and gratitude to those 
her distinguished sons, who have honoured me 
so much with their patronage and approbation, 
shall, while stealing through my humble shades, 
ever distend my bosom, and at times draw forth 
the swelling tear. 

NO. XIX. 

TO • 

My Dear Sir,— 

You may think, and too justly, that I am a 
selfish, an ungrateful fellow, having received so 
many repeated instances of kindness from you, 
and yet never putting pen to paper, to say- 
thank you ; but if you knew what a devil of a 
life my conscience has led me on that account, 
your good heart would think yourself too much 
avenged. By-the-bye, there is nothing in the 
whole frame of man which seems to me so unac- 
countable as that thing called conscience. Had 
the troublesome yelping cur power sufficient to 
prevent a mischief, he might be of use: bat at 
the beginning of the business, his feeble efforts 
are to the workings of passion as the infant 
frosts of an autumnal morning to the unclouded 
fervour of the rising sun : and" no sooner are the 
tumultuous doings of the wicked deed over, 
than, amidst the bitter native consequences of 
folly, in the very vortex of our horrors, up 
starts conscience.' and harrows us with the feel- 
ings of the 

I have enclosed yon, by way of expiation, 
some verse and prose, that, if they merit a place 
in your truly entertaining miscellany, you are 
welcome to. The prose extract is literally as 
Mr. Sprott sent it me. 

The Inscription on the Stone is as follows: 

HERE LIES ROBERT FERGUSSON. 

POET. 



Xo sculptured marble here, nor pompous lay, 
'No storied urn nor animated bast ;' 

This simple stone directs pale Scotia's way, 
To pour her sorr ;ws o'er her poet's dust. 

Ou the ottiei side of the Stone is as follows: 
"By special grant of the Managers to Robert 
Burns, who erected this stone, this burial-place 
is to remain for ever sacred to the memory of 
Robert Pergusson." 

HO. XX. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Madam.— " Edinburgh, March 23, 1787. 

Ii-ead your letter with watery eyes. A litttle, 

very little while ago, I had scarce a friend but the 

stubborn pride of my own bosom: now I am dis- 

::u<nihhed, patronized, by yon. Your friendlv 

advices— I will not give them the cold name of 

criticisms— I receive with reverence. I have 

made some small alterations in which I before 



printed. I have the advice of some very judicious 
friends among the literati here, but with them I 
sometimes find it necessary to claim the privilege 
of thinking for myself. The noble Earl of Glen- 
cairn, to whom I owe more than to any man, 
does me the honour of giving me his strictures; 
his hints, with respect to impropriety or indeli- 
cacy, 1 follow implicitly. 

You kindly interest j-onrself in my future 
views and prospects, there lean give youno 
light; it is all 

"Dark as was chaos, ere the infant sun 
"Was rolled together or had tried its beams, 
Athwart the gloom profound.'' 

The appellation of a Scottish bard is by far my 
greatest pride ; to continue to deserve' it is mv 
most exalted ambition. Scottish scenes and 
Scottish story are the theme I could wish to 
sing. I have no dearer aim than to have it in 
my power, unplagued with the routine of busi- 
ness, for which heaven knows I am unfit 
enough, to make leisurely pilgrimage through 
Caledonia; to sit on the fields of her battles; 
to wander on the banks of her rivers: and to 
muse by the stately towers or venerable ruins, 
once the honoured abodes of her heroes. 

But these are all Utopian thoughts : 1 have 
dallied long enough with life: 'tis time to be in 
earnest. I have a fond, an aged mother to care 
for : and some other bosom ties perhaps equally 
tender. Where the individual only suffers by 
the consequences of his own thoughtlessness, 
indolence, or folly, he may be excusable ; nay, 
shinin? abilities, and some of the nobler virtues 
may half-sanctify a heedless character; bat 
where God and nature have entrusted the wel- 
fare of others to his care ; where the trust is 
sacred and the ties are dear, that man must be 
far gone in selfishness, or strangely lost to 
reflection, whom these connexions wiU not 
rouse to exertion. 

I guess that I shall clear between two and 
three hundred pounds by my authorship : with 
that sum I intend, so far as L may be said to 
have any intention, to return to my old ac- 
quaintance, the plough; and, if I can meet with 
a lease by which I can live, to commence far- 
mer, I do not intend to give up poetry: being 
bred to labour secures me independence ; and 
the muses are my chief, sometimes have been 
my only, enjoyment. If my practice second my 
resolution. I shall have principally at heart the 
serions business of life : but while following my 
plough, or building up my shocks, I shall cast a 
leisure glance to that clear, that only feature of 
my character, which gave me the notice of ray 
country and the patronage of a Wallace. 

Thus, honoured madam, I have given yon the 
bard, his situation, and his views, native as they 
are in his own bosom. 



TO THE SAME. 

Edinburgh, loth April, 1787. 
Madam.— ' 
There is an affection of gratitude which J din- 
like. The periods of Johnson and the pauses of 
Sterne may hide a selfish heart. For 'my part, 
madam, I trust I have too much pride for ser- 
vilitv, and too little prudence for selfishness. I 
have this moment broke open your letter, but 

"Rude am I in speech, 
And therefore little can I grace my cause 
In speaking for myself — '' 

so I shall not trouble you with any fine speeches 
nd hunted figures. I shall just lay my hand on 
my heart, and say, I hope I shall ever have the 
truest, the warmest sense of your goodness. 



142 



BURKS' POETICAL \VORivS\ 



I come abroad in print for certain on Wed- 
nesday. Your orders I shall punctually attend 
to; only, by the way, I must tell you that Pwas 
paid before for Dr. Moore's and Miss W.'s copies, 
through the medium of Commissioner Cochrane 
in this place ; but that we can settle when I 
have the honour of waiting on you. 

Dr. Smith* was just gone to London the 
morning before I received your letter to him. 



NO. XXII. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

Edinburgh. 23rd April, 1737. 
I received the books, and sent the one you 
mentioned to Mrs. Dunlop. I am ill-skilled in 
beating the coverts of imagination for meta- 
phors "of gratitude. I thank you, sir, for the 
honour you have done me ; and to my latest 
hour will warmly remember it. To be highly 
pleased with your book, is what I have in com- 
mon with the world; but to regard these 
volumes as a mark of the author's friendly 
esteem is a still more supreme gratification. 

I leave Edinburgh in the course of ten days or 
a fortnight; and after a few pilgrimages "over 
some of the classic ground of Caledonia— 
Cowden-Knowes, Banks of Yarrow, Tweed, <fec, 
—I shall return to my rural shades, in all like- 
lihood never more to quit them. I have formed 
many intimacies and friendships here, but I am 
afraid they are of too tender a construction to 
hear carriage a hundred and fifty miles. To the 
rich, the great, the fashionable, the polite, I 
have no equivalent to offer; and I am afraid 
my meteor appearance will by no means entitle 
me to a settled correspondence with any of you. 
who are the permanent lights of genius and 
literature. 

My most respectful compliments to Miss AY. 
If once this tangent flight of mine were over, 
and I were returned to my wonted leisurely 
motion in my old circle, I may probably en- 
deavour to return her poetic compliment in 
kind. 



NC\ XXIII. 
EXTRACT OF LETTER . 

Edinburgh, 80th April. 1787. 

YorR criticisms, madam, I understand 

very well, and could have wished to have 
pleased you better. You are right in your guess 
that 1 am not very amenable to counsel. Poets, 
much my superiors, have so flattered those who 
possessed the adventitious qualities of wealth 
and power, that I am determined to flatter no 
created being either in prose or verse. 

I set as little by , lords, clergy, critics, etc., 

as all these respective gentry do by my hardship. 
I know what I may expect from the world by 
and by— illiberal abuse, and perhaps contemp- 
tuous neglect. 

I am happy, madam, that some of our favourite 
pieces are distinguished by your particular ap- 
probation. For my Dreani, which has unfortu- 
nately incurred your loyal displeasure, I hope in 
a few weeks, or less, to have the honour of ap- 
pearing at Dunlop, in its defence, in person. 

NO. XXIV. 

TO THE REY. DR. HUGH BLAIR. 

Lawn-Market, Edinburgh, 3rd May, 1787. 

Rev. and much respected Sir.— 

I leave Edinburgh to-morrow morning, but 

could not go without troubling you with half a 

line, sincerely to thank you for your kindness, 

patronage, and friendship you have shown me. 



*Adam Smith. 



I often felt the embarrassment ot my singula! 1 
situation; drawn forth from the veriest shades 
of life to the glare of remark; and honoured bv 
the notice of those illu.-trj- is names of my coun- 
try, whose works, while v ney are applauded to 
the end of time, will ever; instruct and amend 
the heart. However the meteor-like novelty of 
my appearance in the world might attract notice, 
and honour me with the acquaintance of the per- 
manent lights of genius and literature, those 
who are truly benefactors of the immortal nature 
of man; I knew very well, that my ntniost 
merit was far unequal to the task of preserving 
that character when once the novelty was over. 
I have made up my mind, that abuse, or almost 
even neglect, will not surprise me in my 
quarters. 

I have sent you a proof impression of Beugo's 
work for me. done on Indian paper, as a trifling 
but sincere testimony with what heart-warm 
gratitude I am, &c. 



no. xxv. 
FROM DR. BLAIR. 

Argyle Square, 4th May, 1787. 
Dear Sir,— 

I was favoured this forenoon with your obliging 
letter, together with an impression of your por- 
trait, for which 1 return you my best thanks. 
The success you have met with I do not think 
was beyond your merits; and if I have had any 
small hand in contributing to it, it gives me great 
pleasure. I know no way in which literary per- 
sons, who are advanced in rears, can do more 
service to the world, than in forwarding the 
efforts of rising genius or bringing forth un- 
known merit from obscurity. 1 was the first 
person who brought out to the notice ot the 
world the poems of Ossian : first by the " Frag- 
ments of Ancient Poetry," which 1 published, 
and afterwards, by my setting on foot the 
undertaking for collecting and publishing the 
"Works of Ossian;" and I have always con- 
si lerod this as a meritorious action of my life. 

Your situation, as you say, was indeed very 
singular; and. in being brought out all at once 
from the shade's of deepest privacy, to so great a 
share of public notice and observation, you had 
to stand a severe trial. I am happy that you 
have stood it so well; and, as far as I have 
known or heard, though in the midst of many 
temptations, without reproach to your character 
and behaviour. 

You are now, I presume, to retire to a more 
private walk of life, and, I trust, will conduct 
yourself there with industry, prudence, and 
honour. You have laid the foundation for just 
public esteem. Jn the midst of those employ- 
ments, which your situation will render proper, 
you will not. I hope, neglect to promote that 
esteem, by cultivating your genius, and attend- 
ing to such productions of it as may raise your 
character still higher. At the same time, be not 
in too great a haste to come forward. Take time 
and leisure to improve and mature your talents; 
for on any second production you give the world, 
your fate, as a poet, will very much depend. 
There is, no doubt, a gloss of novelty which 
time wears off. As you very properly hint 
yourself, your are not to be surprised if. in your 
rural retreat, yon do not find y.-urself. surrounded 
with that glare of notice and applause which 
here shone upon yon. No man can be a good 
poet without being somewhat of a philosopher. 
He must lay his account, that any one, who ex- 
poses himself to public observation, will occa- 
sionally meet with the attacks of illiberal cen- 
sure, which it is always best to overlook and 
despise. He will be obliged sometimes to court 
retreat, and to disappear from public view. He 
Will not affect to shine always, that he may at 



COEEESPOXDENCE OF BUEXg. 



i4J 



proper seasons come forth with more advantage 
and energy. He will .iot think himself neglected 
if he be not always praised. I have taken the 
liberty, yon see, of an old man, to give advice and 
make reflections wMch your own good sense 
will, 1 dare say, rei ;r unnecessary. 

As you mention j ur heing just about to leave 
town, you are going, I shouid suppose, to Dum- 
fries-shire, to look at some of Mr. Miller's farms. 
I heartily wish the offers to be made you there 
may answer; as I am persuaded you will not 
easily find a more generous and better-hearted 
proprietor to live under than Mr. Miller When 
you return, if you come this way, I will be happy 
to see you, and to know concerning your future 
plans of life. You will find me, by the 22nd of 
this month, not in my house in Argyle Square, 
hut at a country-house at Restalrig, about a 
mile east from Edinburgh, near Musselburgh 
Eoad. Wishing you all success and prosperity, 
1 am, with real regard and esteem. 

Dear sir, yours sincerelv, 

Hugh Blair. 



FEOM DE. MOOEE. 

Gifford Street, May 23, 1737. 

Dear Sir,— 

I had the pleasure of your letter by Mr. Creech, 
and soon after he sent me the new edition of 
your poems. You seem to think it incumbent on 
you to send to each subscriber a number of 
copies proportionate to his subscription money; 
but you may depend upon it, few subscribers ex- 
pect more than one copy, whatever they sub- 
scribed. I must inform you, however, that I 
took twelve copies for those subscribers for 
whose money you were so accurate as to send 
me a receipt ; and Lord Eglinton told me he had 
sent for six copies for himself, as he wished to 
give five of them in presents. 

Some of the poems you have added in this last 
edition are beautiful, particularly the " Winter 
Xight," the '-Address to Edinburgh," "Green 
grow the Rashes," and the two songs immedi- 
ately following ; the latter of which was ex- 
quisite. By the way, I imagine you have a 
peculiar talent for such compositions, which you 
ought to indulge. Xo kind of poetry demands 
more delicacy or higher polishing. Horace is 
more admired on account of his Odes than all 
his other writings. But nothing now added is 
equal to your "Vision" and "Cotter's Saturday 
Xight." In these are united fine imagery. 
natural and pathetic description, with sublimity 
of language and thought. It is evident that you 
already possess a great variety of expression 
and command of the English language; you 
ought, therefore, to be more sparingly for the 
future in the provincial dialect:— why should 
you, by using that, limit the number of your 
admirers to those who understand the Scottish, 
when you can extend it to all persons of taste 
who understand the English language? In my 
opinion, you should plan some larger work than 
any you have as yet attempted. 1 mean, reflect 
upon some proper subject, and arrange the plan 
in your mind, without beginning to execute any 
part of it till you have studied most of the best 
English poets, and read a little more of history. 
The Greek and Roman stories yon can read in 
some abridgment, and soon become master of 
the most brilliant facts, which must highly de- 
light a poetical mind. Yon should also, and very 
soon muij, become master of the heathen my- 
thology, to which there are everlasting allusions 
in all the poets, and which in itself is charminglv 
fanciful. What will require to be studied with 
more attention, is modern history; that is the 
history of France and Great Britain, from the 
beginning of Henry the Seventh's reign. I know 



very well you have a mind capable of attaining 
knowledge by a shorter process than is eonnm mly 
used, and I am certain you ai-e capable of making 
a better use of it, wdien attained, than is gene* 
rally done. 

I beg you will not give yourself the trouble of 
writing to me when it is inconvenient, and make 
no apology, when you do write, for having post- 
poned it ; be assured of this, however, that I 
shall always be happy to hear from you. 1 think 

my friend Mr. told me that yoli had some 

poems in manuscript by you of a satirical and 
humorous nature (in which, by the way, I think 
you very strong,) which your prudent friends 
prevailed on you to omit, particularly one called 
"Somebody's Confession;" if you will entrust 
me with a sight of any of these, I will pawn my 
word to give no copies, and will be obliged to you 
for a perusal of them. 

I understand you intend to take a farm, and 
make the useful and respectable business of 
husbandry your chief occupation ; this, I hope, 
will not prevent your making occasional ad- 
dresses to the nine ladies wdio have shown you 
such favour, one of whom visited you in the aulcl 
clay biggin. Virgil, before yon, proved to the 
world that there is nothing in the business of 
husbandry inimical to poetry; and I since rely 
hope that you may afford an example of a good 
poet being a successful farmer. I fear it will 
not be in my power to visit Scotland this season ; 
when 1 do, I'll endeavour to find you out, for I 
heartily wish to see and converse with you. If 
ever your occasions call yon to this place, I make 
no doubt of your paying me a visit, and you may 
depend on a very cordial welcome from this 
family. 

I am, dear sir, 

Your friend and obedient servant, 

J. Moore. 



no. xxvir. 
FEOM ME. JOHX HUTCHIXSOX. 

Jamaica, St. Ann's, litfi June. 1787. 

SlR,- 

I received yours, dated Edinburgh. 2nd Janu- 
ary, 1787, wherein you acquaint me you were 
engaged with Mr. Douglas of Port Antonio, for 
three years, at thirty pounds sterling a-year; 
and am happy some unexpected accidents inter- 
vened that presented your sailing with the 
vessel, as I have great reason to think Mr. 
Douglas's employ would by no means have an- 
swered your expectations. 1 received a copy of 
your publications, forwhich I return you thanks, 
and it is my own opinion, as we 11 as that of snch 
of my friends as have seen them, they are most 
excellent in their kind; although some could 
have wished they had been in the English style, 
as they allege the Scottish dialect is now be- 
coming obsolete, and thereby the elegance and 
beauties of your poems are in a great measure 
lost to far the greater part of the community. 
Xevertheless there isno doubt you had. sufficient, 
reasons for your conduct— perhaps the wishes of 
some of the Scottish nobility and gentry, your 
patrons, who will always relish their own old 
country style; and your own inclinations for the 
same. It is evident from several passages in 
vour works, you are as capable of writing in the 
English as in the Scottish dialect, and I am in 
great hopes your genius for poetry, from the 
specimen yori have already given, will turn out 
both for * profit and honour to yourself and 
country. I can by no means advise yon now to 
think of coming to the West Indies, as I assure 
you, there is no encouragement for a man of 
learning and genius here ; and am very confi- 
dent you can do far better in Great Britain 
than in Jamaica. I am glad to hear my friends 
are well, and shall always be happy to hear 



H4 BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 

from you at ail convenient opportunities, wish- 
ing you success in all .your undertakings. 1 will 
esteem it a particular favour if you will sendee 
a copy of the other edition you are now print- 
ing. 

I am, with, respect. 

Dear sir, yours, &c, 

* John IIutchixsox. 



No xxvni. 

TO illJ. WALKER BLAIR, OF ATHOLE. 
Inverness, 5th September, 1787. 
Mx Dear Sir,— 

I have justtime to write the foregoing,* and to 
tell you that, it was (at least, most part of it) the 
effusion of an half hour I spent at Bruar. I do 
not mean it was extempore, for I have endea- 
voured to brush it tip as well as Mr. X 's 

chat, and the jogging of the chaise would allow. 
It eases my heart a good deal, as rhyme is the 
coin with which a poet pays his debts of honour 
or gratitude. What I owe to the noble family of 
Athole, of the first kind, I shall ever prondly 
boast; what I owe of the last, so help me God in 
my hour of need, I shall never forget. 

The little "angel band!"— I declare I prayed 
for them very sincerely to-day at the Fall of 
Fyars. 1 shall never forget the fine family - 
piece I saw at Blair: the amiable, the truly 
noble Duehcs--. with her smiling little seraph in 
her lap, at the head of the table; the lovely 
"olive plants," as the Hebrew bard finely says, 
round the happy mother; the beautiful -Mrs. 

G ; the lovely, sweet Miss C, &c. I wish I 

had the powers of Gnido to do them justice; 
My Lord Duke's kind hospitality, markedly kind, 

Indeed— Mr. <;. of F 's charms of conversation 

—Sir W. M 's friendship— in short, the recol- 

lecti ii of all that polite, agreeable company 
raises an honest glow in my bosom. 



NO. XXIX. 

TO MR. GILBERT BURNS. 
Edinburgh 17th 
My dear Brother,— 

I arrived here safe yesterday evening, after a 
tour of twenty-two days, and trav . 
Six hundred miles, windings included. My far- 
thest stretch was about ten miles beyond Inver- 
ness. I went through the heart of the High- 
lands, bv Crieff, Tavmouth, the famous seat of 
Lord Bi'vadalbane,'down the Tav. among cas- 
cades and druidical circles of stone- to Dunkeld, 
a seat of the Duke of A . cross Tay. 

and up one of his tributary streams to Blair of 
Athole, another of the Duke's seats, where I 
had the honour of spending two days with his 
Grace and family: thence many miles through 
a wild country, among cliffs grey with eternal 
snows, and gloomy savage glens, till I crossed 
Spey and went down the stream through Strath- 
spey, so famous in Scottish music, Badcnoch, 
&c, till I reached Grant Castle, where 1 spent 
half a dav with Sir James Grant and family; 
and then "crossed the country for Fort George, 
but called bv the way at Cawdor, the ancient 
seat of Macbeth; there I saw the identical bed 
in which tradition says, King Dnncan was mur- 
dered: lastly, from Fort George to Inverness. 

I returned by the coast, through Nairn, Forres, 
and so on, to* Aberdeen; thence to Stoiiehive, 
where James Barnes from Montrose, met me by 
appointment. I spent two days among our re- 
lations, and found our aunts, Jean and Isabel, 
still alive, and hale old women. John Caird, 
though born the same year with our father, 



walks as vigorously as I can: they have had 
several letters from his son in New York. 
William Brand is likewise a stout old fellow; 
but further particulars I delay till I sec you, 
which will be in two or three weeks. The rest 
of my stages are not worth rehearsing; warm 
as I was from Ossian's country, where I had 
seen his very grave, what cared I for fishing 
towns or fertile carses? I slept at the famous 
Brodie of Brodie's one night, and dined at Gor- 
don Castle next day with the Duke, Duchess, 
and family. 1 am thinking to cause my old 
mare to meet me, by means of John Ronald, at 
Glasgow ; but yon shall hear farther from me 
before I leave Edinburgh. My duty, and many 
compliments from the north, to my mother, and 
my brotherly compliments to the rest. I have 
been trying for a birth for William, but am not 
likely to be successful.— Farewell. 



TO - 



XO. XXX. 

DALRYMPLE, ESQ. OF ORAM IE- 
FIELD. 

Edinburgh, 1787. 
Dear Sir,— 

I suppose tile devil is so elated with his success 
With you. that he is determined by a coup de 
main to complete his purposes on you all a; once, 
in making you a poet. I broke open the letter you 
sent me ; hummed over the rhymes ; and, as I 
saw they were extempore, said to myself they 
were well: but when I saw at the bottom a 
name that I shall ever value with grateful re- 
spect, "I gapit wide but lftiething spak." I was 
nearly as much struck as the friends of Job, of 
affliction-bearing memory, when they sat down 
with him seven days and seven nights, and 
spake not a word. 



Iain naturally of a superstitious cast, and as 
. wonder-scared imagination regained 
'. usiiess and resumed its fund I 

east about what this mania of yours might por- 
tend. My foreboding Ideas had the. wide stretch 
of possibility : and several events, great in their 
magnitude, and Important in their consequences, 
occurred to my fancy. The downfall of the con- 
i lave, or the crushing of the cork rumps; a ducal 

coronet to Lord George G and the protestant 

.' Saint Peter's keys to . . . 
You want to know how I come on. I am just 
in statu quo, or, not to insult a gentleman with 
my Latin, "inaulduse and wont." The noble 
Earl of Glencairn took me bv the hand to-day, 
and interested himself in my concerns, with a 
- like that benevolent being, whose 
image he so richly bears. He is a stronger proof 
of the immortality of the soul, that any that phi- 
losophy ever produced. A mind like his can 
never die. Let the worshipful squire. H. L., or 
the reverend Mass J. M.. go into their primitive 
nothing. At best they are but ill-digested lumps 
of chaos, only one of them strongly tinged with 
bituminous particles and sulphureous effluvia. 
But my noble patron, eternal as the heroic swell 
of magnanimity, and the generous throb of 
benevolence, shall look on with princely eye at 
'• the war of elements, the wreck of matter, and 
the craoh of worlds." 



XO. XXXI. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Edinburgh, 2\st Janvaru. 178$. 
After six weeks' confinement, I am beginning 
to walk across the room. They have be 
horrible weeks ; anguish and low spirits made 
me unfit to read, write or think. 

I have a hundred times wished that one could 
resign life as an officer lesigns a commission: 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



Uo 



for I -would not take in any poor ignorant wretch, 
b-v selling out. Lately I was a sixpenny private ; 
and, God knows, a miserable soldier enough; 
now I march to the campaign, a starving cadet : 
a little more conspicuously wretched. 

I am ashamed of all this ; for though I do want 
bravery for the welfare of life, I could wish, like- 
some other soldiers, to have as much fortitude 
or cunning as to dissemble or conceal Jury cow- 
ardice. 

As soon as I can bear the journey, which will 
be, as I suppose, about the middle of next week, 
I leave Edinburgh, and soon after I shall pay my 
grateful duty at Dunlop House. 



Edinburgh, 15th February, 178S. 
Some things in your late letters hurt me ; not 
that you say them, but that you mistake me. Re- 
ligion, my honoured madam, has not only been 
all my life my chief dependence, but my dearest 
enjoyment. I have indeed been the luckless 
victim of wayward follies ; but alas ! I have 
ever been '"more fool than knave." A mathe- 
matician without religion, is a probable charac- 
ter ; an irreligious poet, is a monster. 



NO. XXXIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP, 

Mossgiel, 7th March, 1783. 
Madam,— 
The last paragraph in yours of the 20th of Fe- 
bruary affected me most, so I shall begin mv 
answer -where you ended your letter. "That "l 
am often a sinner with any little wit I have. I 
do confess: but I have taxed my recollection to 
no purpose, to find out when it was employed 
against you. 1 hate an ungenerous sarcasm, a 
great deal worse than I do the devil; at least as 
Milton describes him ; and though 1 may be ras- 
cally enough to be sometimes guilty of it myself, 
I cannot endure it in others. You, my honoured 
friend, who cannot appear in any light, but you 
are sure of being respectable— yon can afford to 
pass by an occasion to display your wit. because 
you may depend for fame oh your sense ; or if 
you choose to be silent, you know you can rely 
on the gratitude of many and the esteem of all ; 
but God help us who are wits or witlings, by 
profession, if we stand not for fame there, we 
sink unsupported ? 

I am highly flattered by the news you tell me 
of Coila. 1 may say to the fair painter who does 
me so much honour, as Dr. Beanie savs to Ross 
the poet, of his Muse Scotia, from which, by the 
bye, I took the idea of Coila: ("Tis a poem of 
Beatie's in the Scots dialect, which perhaps vou 
have never seen,) 

'Ye shak your head, but o' mv fegs, 
Ye've set auld Scotia on her leers : 
Lang had she lien wi' buffe and fles. 

Bombaz'd and dizzie, 
^ IJ :r fiddle wanted strings and pegs, 

Waes me, poor hizzie.' 



xo. xxxiv. 
TO MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 

Mauchline, Z\st March. 1783. 
Yesterday, my dear sir, as 1 was riding through 
a track of melancholy joyless mnirs, between 
Galloway and Ayrshire, it being Sunday. I 
turned my thoughts to psalms and spiritual 
songs ; and your favourite air, " Captain 



O'Kean," coming at length in my head, I tried 
these words to it. You will see that the first part 
of the tune must be repeated.* 

I am tolerably pleased with these verses, but 
as I have only a sketch of the tune, I leave it 
with you to try if they suit the measure of the 
music. 

I am so harassed with care and anziety, about 
this farming project of mine, that my muse has 
degenerated into the veriest prose-wench that 
ever picked cinders, or followed a tinker. When 
I am fairly got into the routine of business, 1 
shall trouble you with a longer epistle ; perhaps 
with some queries respecting farming; at pre- 
sent, the world sits such a load on my mind, 
that it has effaced almost every trace of the 



Mrs. Cle 

NO. XXXV 

FROM MR. ROBERT CLEGHORN. 

Saughton Mills, 21th April, 1788. 

MY DEAR BROTHER FARMER,— 

I was favoured with your very kind letter of 
the 31st ult., and consider myself greatly obliged to 
you for. your attention in sending me the song to 
my favourite air, •• Captain O'Kean." The words 
delighted me much, They fit the tune to a hair. 
I wish you would send me a verse or two more ; 
and if you have no objection, I would have it in 
the Jacobite style. Suppose it should be sung 
after the fatal field of Culloden by the unfortu- 
nate Charles; Tenducci personates the lovely 
Mary Stuart in the song "Queen Mary's La- 
mentation."— Why may not I sing in the person 
of her great-.crreat-.Lrreat grandson ?t 

Any skill I have in country business you may 
truly command. Situation, soil, customs of 
countries, may vary from each other, but Farmer 
Attention is a good farmer in every place. I beg 
to hear from you soon. Mrs. Cleghorn joins me 
in best compliments. 

1 am, in the most comprehensive sense of the 
word, your very sincere friend, 

Robert Cleghorn. 

xo. xxxvi. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Mauchline, 2Sth April, 1783. 
Madam,— 

Your powers of reprehension must be great 
indeed, as I assure you they made my heart 
ache with penetential pangs, even though I was 
really not guilty. As Icommencefarmer at Whit- 
sunday, you will easily guess I must be pretty 
busy; but that is not all. As I got the offer of 
the excise business without solicitati< >n 'i and as it 
cost me only six months' attendance for instruc- 
tions, to entitle me to a commission; which 
commission lies by, and at any future period, on 
my simple petition, can be resumed; I thought 
five-and-thirty pounds a-year was no bad dernier 
ressort for a poor poet, if fortune in her jade 
tricks should kick him down from the little 
eminence to which she has lately helped him up. 

For this reason, I am at present attending 
these instructions, to have them completed 
before Whitsunday. Still, madam. I prepared 
with the sincerest pleasure to meet you at the 
Mount, and came to my brothers oh Saturday 
night, to set out on Sunday ; but for some nights 

* Here the bard gives the first stanza of the 
Chevalier's Lament. 

tOur poet took this advice. The whole of this 
beautiful song, as it was afterwards finished, is 
the one commencing— 

■'The small birds rejoice in the green leaves 
returning." 



14G 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



preceding I had slept in an apartment, where 
the force of the wind and rain was only miti- 
gated by being sifted through numberless 
apertures in the window, walls, <fec. In conse- 
quence, I was on Sunday, Monday, and part of 
Tuesday, unable to stir out of bed, with all the 
miserable effects of a violent cold. 

You see, madam, the truth of the French 
maxim, Le vrai rfest pas toujours le vrai-sem- 
blable; your last was so full of expostulation, 
and was so like the language of an offended 
friend, that I began to tremble for a correspon- 
dence, which I had with grateful pleasure set 
down as one of the greatest enjoyments of my 
future life. 

Your books have delighted me ; "Virgil," 
"Dryden," and "Tasso," were all equal stran- 
gers to me ; but of this more at large in my next. 

NO. XXXVII. 
TO PROFESSOR DU^ALD STEWART. 
Mauchline, 3d May, 1787. 

Sn:.- 
I enclose you one or two more of my baga- 
telles. If the fervent wishes of honest gratitude 
have any influence with that great, unknown 
Being, who frames the chain of causes ami 
(■veins, prosperity and happiness will attend 
your visit to the Continent, and return you safe 



ray privilege, to acquaint yon with my progr 

in my trade of rhvine- ; as I am sure ] conld 
say ii with truth, that, next to my little fame, 
and the 

We ne'er thought of schemes to be wealthy, 0, 
By ways that were cunning or stealthv, O, 
Put we always had ih • Mi-'s,' 
And what farther could we wiss, 
To be pleased wi' ourselves, and be healthy, 0. 

What tho' we canna boast of onr guineas, 0, 

We have plenty of Joekies and Jeanies, O, 
And these. I am certain, are 
More desirable by far. 

Then a pock full of poor yellow sleenies, 0. 

We have seen many a wonder and ferly, 0, 

Of changes that almost are yearly. (). 

Among rich folk, up and down, 

Both in country and town. 
Who now live but scrimply, and barely, 0. 

Then why should people brag of prosperity, 0? 
A straiteh'd lite we see is no rarity. O; 

Indeed we've been in want. 

And our living been but scant. 
Yet we never were reduced to need charity, 0. 

In this house me first came together, 0. 
Where we've long been a Father and Blither, 0, 

And tho' not of stone and lime, 

It will last us a' our time, 
And I hope we shall never need anither, 0. 

And when we leave this habitation. O, 
We'll depart with a good commendation. O, 
We'll go hand in hand, I wiss, 
To a better house than this. 
To make room for the next generation, O. 

Then why should old age so much wound us, 0? 
There is nothing in it all to confound us, O; 

For how happy now am 1. 

With my auld wife sitting by. 
And our bairns and our oes all around us, O. 

having it in my power to make life more com- 
fortable to those whom nature has made dear to 
me, I shall ever regard your countenance, your 
patronage, your friendly good offices, as the 
m.,£.r valued consequence of mv late ; 
life. 



NO. XXXVIII. 



EXTRACT OF A LETTEE. 

TO MRS. DU5LOP. 

Mauchline, ith May, 1788. 
Madam,— 
Dryden's "Virgil" has delighted me. I do not 
know whether the critics will agree with me, 
but the Georgics are to me by far the best of 
Virgil. It is indeed a species of writing entirclv 
new to me ; and has filled my head with a thou- 
sand fancies of emulation; but, alas! when 1 
read the Georgics, and then survey my own 
powers, 'tis like the idea of a Shetland pony, 
drawn up by the side of a thorough-bred hunter, 
to start for the plate. I own I am disappointed 
in the "JEncid." Fautless correctness ma v please 
and docs highly please the learned critic; but to 
that awful character I have not the most distant 
pretensions. I do not know whether I do not 
hazard my pretensions to be a critic of any kind, 
when I say that I think Virgil; in many Instances, 
a servile copier of Homer. If I had the "Odyssey" 
by me, I could parallel many passages "where 
Virgil has evidently copied, and by no means 
improved Homer. Nor can I think there is any- 
thing of this owing to the translators; for, from 
everything I have seen of Dryden, I think bini, 
in genius and fluency of language. Pope's master. 
1 have not perused "Tasso" enough to form an 
opinion; in some future letter, you shall have 
my ideas of him: though I am" conscious my 
criticisms must be very inaccurate and imper- 
fect, as tlere I have ever felt and lamented my 
want of learning most. 



NO. xxxix. 
TO THE S A M E. 

27th May, 1788. 

Madam,— 
I have been torturing my philosophy to no pur- 
pose, to account for that kind partiality of your-, 
which, unlike ...... 

. has followed me in my return to the 
shade of life with assiduous benevolence. Often 
did I regret, in the fleeting hours of my late will- 
o'-wisp appearance, that "here I had no con- 
tinuing city:" and, but for the consolation of a 
few solid guineas, could almost lament the time 
that a momentary acquaintance with wealth 
and splendour put me so much out of conceit 
witli the sworn companions of my road through 
life, insignificance and poverty. 

There arc few circumstances relating to the 
unequal distribution of the good tilings of this 
life that gives me more vexation (I mean, in 
what I see around me) than the importance 
the opulent bestow on their trifling family 
affairs, compared with the very same thing 
on the contracted scale of a cottage. Last 
afternoon I had the honour to spend an hour or 
two at a good woman's fireside, where the planks 
that composed the floor were decorated with 
a splendid carpet, and the gay table sparkled 
with silver and china. 'Tis now about term-day, 
and there has been a revolution among those 
creatures, who, though in appearance partaker-, 
and equally noble partakers, of the same nature 
with madame, are from time to time their 
nerves, their health, strength, wisdom, expe- 
rience, genius, time.— nay. a good part of their 
very thoughts, sold for months and years, . 

-. not only to the neces- 
sities, the conveniences, the caprices of the im- 
portant few.* We talked of the insignificant 
creatures; nay, notwithstanding their general 

i * Servants in Scotland are hired from I 
, term— i.e.. from Whitsunday to Mirrin 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BL'RXS. 



1-17 



Stupidity and ra.-calitv. did some of the poor 
devils the honour to commend them. Bat light 
be the turf upon his breast, who taught "Rever- 
ence thyself." We look down on the unpolished 
wretches, their impertinent wives and clouterly 
brats as the lordly bull does on the little dirty 
ant-hill, whose puny inhabitants he crushes in 
the carelessness of his ramble, or tosses in the 
air in the wantonness of his pride. 



NO. XL. 

TO THE SAME. 
AT ME. DUN'LOP'S, HADDINGTON. 
Elhsland, 13th June, 1783. 
"Where'er I roam, whatever realms 1 see, 
My heart, untravell'd, fondly turns to thee: 
Still to my friend it turns with ceaseless pain, 
And drags at each remove a lengthen'd chain." 
—Goldsmith. 

This is the second day, my honoured friend, that 
1 have been oh my farm. A solitary inmate of 
an old. smoky spence ; far from every object 1 
love, or by whom I am loved ; nor any acquain- 
tance older than vesterdav, except JennvGeddes, 
the old mare I 'ride on: while uncouth cares, 
and novel plans, hourly insult my awkward 
ignorance and bashful inexperience. There is a 
foggy atmostphere native to my soul in the hour 
of care, consequently the dreary objects seem 
larger than the life. Extreme sensibility, irri- 
tated and prejudiced on the gloomy side by a 
series of misfortunes and disappointments, at 
that period of my existence when the soul is 
laying in her cargo of ideas for the voyage of life, 
is,' I believe, theprincipal cause of this unhappy 
frame of mind. 



Or 



The valiant, in him, what can lie suffer? 
lat need he regard his single woes?" &.c. 



I found a once much-loved, and still much- 
loved, female, literally and truly cast out to the 
mercy of the naked elements, but as I enabled 
her to purchase a shelter; and there is no sport- 
ing with a fellow-creature's happiness or miserv. 

The most placid good nature and sweetness of 
disposition ; a warm heart, gratefully devoted 
with all its powers to love me; vigorous health 
and sprightly cheerfulness, set off to the best 
advantage, by a more than common handsome 
figure;— these, I think, in a woman, may make a 
good wife, though she should never have read a 
page, but the Scriptures of the Old and New 
Testament, nor have danced in a brighter as- 
sembly than a pemry pay- wedding. 



NO. XLI. 

TO MR. P. HILL. 
My Beau Hill,— 

1 shall say nothing at all to your mad present 
—you have so long and often been of important 
service to me, and I suppose you mean to go on 
conferring obligations until I shall not be able to 
lift up my face before you. In the meantime, 
as Sir Roger de Ooverley, because it happened 
to be a cold day in which he made his will, or- 
dered his servants great-coats for mourning ; so, 
because I have been this week plagued with an 
indigestion, I have sent you by the carrier a fine 
old ewe-milk cheese. 

Indigestion is the devil: nay, 'tis the devil 
and all. It besets a man in every one of his 
senses. 1 lose my appetite at the sight of suc- 



cessful knavery ; and sicken to loathing at the 
noise and nonsense of self-important folly. 
When the hollow-hearted wretch takes me by 
the hand, the feeling spoils my dinner; the 
proud man's wine so offends my palate, that it 
chokes me in the gullet; and the puhilis'd, 
feathered, pert coxcomb, is so disgustful in my 
nostril, that my stomach turns. 

If ever yon have any of these disagreeable 
sensations, let me prescribe for your patience 
and a bit of my cheese. I know that you are no 
niggard to your good things among your friends, 
and some of them are in much need of a slice. 
There, in my eye, is our friend Smeliie, a man 
positively of the first abilities and greatest 
strength of mind, as well as one of the best 
hearts and keenest wits that I have ever met 
with : when you see him, as, alas 1 he too is 
smarting at the pinch of distressful circum- 
stances, aggravated by the sneer of contume- 
lious greatness— a bit of my cheese alone will 
not cure him, but if you add a tankard of brown 
stout, and superadd a magnum of right Oporto, 
you will see his sorrows vanish like the morn- 
ing mist before the summer sun. 

C h, the earliest friend, except my only 

brother, that I have on earth, and one of the 
worthiest fellows that ever any man called by 
the name of friend, if a luncheon of my cheese 
would help to rid him of some of his superabun- 
dant modesty, you would do well to give it him. 

Bavid,* wi'th his Courartt. comes, too, across 
my recollection; and I beg you will help him 
largely from the said ewe milk cheese, to enable 

him to digest those heda. thing paragraphs 

with which he is eternally larding the lean cha- 
racters of certain great men in a certain great 
town. 1 grant you the periods are very well 
turned: so. a fresh egg is a very good thing; 
hut when thrown at a man in a pillory it does 
not at all improve his figure, not to mention the 
irreparable loss of the egg. 

My facetious friend. B r, I would wish also 

to be a partaker; not to digest his spleen, for 
that he laughs off, but to digest his last night's 
wine at the last field-day of the Crochallan 
corps.t 

Among our common friends, I must not forget 
one of the dearest of them. Cunningham. The 
brutality, insolence, and selfishness of a world 
unworthy of having such a fellow as he is in it, 
1 know sticks in his stomach, and if you can help 
him to anything that will make him a little 
easier on that score, it will be very obliging. 

As to honest J S e, he is such a con- 
tented happy man that I know not what can 
annoy him, except perhaps he may not have got 
the better of a parcel of modest anecdotes which 
a certain poet gave him one night at supper, the 
last time the said poet was in town. 

Though 1 have mentioned so many men of law, 
I shall have nothing to do with them profes- 
sedly—the Faculty are beyond my prescription. 
As to their clients, that is another thing; God 
knows they have much to digest ! 

The clergy I pass by ; their profundity of eru- 
dition, and their liberality of sentiment; their 
total want of pride, and their detestation of hy- 
pocrisy, are so proverbially notorious as to place 
them far, far above either my praise or cen- 
sure. 

I was going to mention a man of worth, whom 
I have the honour to call friend, the Laird of 
lord Craigdarroch ; but 1 have spoken to the land- 
of the " King's Arms Inn" here to have, at the 
next country -meeting, a large ewe-milk cheese 
on the table, for the benefit of the Dumfries- 
shire Whigs, to enable them to digest the Buke 
of Queensberry's late political conduct. 



* Printer of the Edinburgh Evening Courant. 
t A club of choice spirits. 



13 URNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



I have just this moment an opportunity of a 
private hand to Edinburgh, as perhaps you 
would not digest double postage. 



TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Vauchline, 2nd August, 1788. 
Honoured Madam,— 

Your kind letter welcomed me yesternight to 
Ayrshire. I am indeed seriously angry with 
you at the quantum of your luckpenny; but 
vexed and hurt as I was, I could not help'laugh- 
ing very heartily at the noble lord's apology for 
the missed napkin. 

I would write you from Nithsdale, and give 
you my direction there, but I have scarce an 
opportunity of calling at a post-office once in a 
fortnight. 1 am six miles from Dumfries, am 
scarcely ever in it myself, and. as yet. have 
little acquaintance in the neighbourhood. Be- 
sides, I am now very busy on my farm, building 
a dwelling-house ; as at present I am almost an 
evangelical man in Nithsdale, lor I have scarce 
"where to lay my head." 

There are some passages in vour last that 
brought tears in my eyes. "The* heart knoweib 
its own sorrows, and a stranger intermeddleth 
not therewith." The repository of these ••sor- 
rows of the heart," is a kind of samium sanc- 
torum; and 'tis only a chosen friend, and that 
too at particular, sacred times, who dares enter 
into them. 

•'Heaven oft tears the bosoni-chords 
That nature finest strung." 



TO THE SAME. 
Manchline, \oth Augi 
Mr Much Honoured Friend,— 

Tours of the L'4th June is before me. 1 found it, 
as well as another valued friend— mv wife, wait- 
ing to welcome me to Ayrshire: I met both with 
the sineerest pleasure. 

When I write you, madam, I do not sit down 
t-, answer every paragraph of vnurs, bv ccboimr 
every sentiment, like the faithful Commons of 
(ireat Britain in parliament assembled, answer- 
ing a speech from the best of kings! I exnress 
myscli in the fulness of my heart, and may per- 
haps be guilty of neglecting some of vour kind 
inquiries; but not from your very odd reason 
that I do not read your letters. All your epistles 
for several months have cost me nothing, except 
a swelling throb of gratitude, or a deep-felt sen- 
timent of veneration. 

Mrs. Bums, madam, is the identical woman 
. . . When she first found herself "as women 
wish to be who love their lords ;" as I loved her 
nearly to distraction, we took steps for a private 
marriage. Her parents got the hint; and not 
only forbade ine her company and their house, 
but on my rumoured West-Indian voyage, got a 
warrant to put me in gaol, till I should find 
security in my about-to-be paternal relation. 
Yon know my luckv reverse of fortune. On mv 
celatant return to Mauehline, I was made very 
-welcome to visit mv girl. The usual conse- 
quences began to betray her: and as I was at 
that time laid up a cripple in Edinburgh, she 
was turned, literally turned, out of doors, and I 
wrote to a friend to shelter her. till mv return, 
when our marriage was declared. Her happiness 
or misery was in my hands ; and who could trifle 
with such a deposit? 



I can" easily fancy a more agreeable companion 



Circumstanced as I am, I could never have 
got a female partner for life who could have 
entered into my favourite studies, relished my 
favourite authors, <&e, without probably entailing 
on me, at the. same time, expensive living, fan- 
tastic caprice, perhaps apish affectation, with all 
the other blessed boarding school acquirements, 
which {pardonnez mot, madame) are sometimes 
to be found among females of the upper ranks, 
but almost universally pervade the misses of the 
would-be gentry 

I like your way, in your church-yard lucubra- 
tions. Thoughts that are the spontaneous re- 
sult of accidental situations, either respecting 
health, place, or company, have often a strength, 
and always an originality, that would in vain be 
looked for in fancied circumstances and studied 
paragraphs. For me, 1 have often thought of 
keeping a letter, in progression, by me. to send 
when the sheet was written out. Now I talk of 
sheets, 1 must tell you. my reason for writing to 
you on paper of this kind, is my pruriency of 
writing to you at large. A page of post is on 
such a dissocial, narrow-minded scale, that t 
cannot abide it ; and double letters— at least, in 
my miscellaneous, reverie manner— are a mon- 
strous tax in a close correspondence. 



NO. XLIV. 

TO Tin: SAME. 

Elhsland, WkAugtust, i: -. 
I am in a liu" disposition, my honoured friend, 
to send you an elegiac cpiMlY; and want only 
genius to make it quite Shenstonian. 

'Why droops my heart with fancied woes for- 
lorn ? 
Why -inks my soul beneath each wintry sky?" 






My increasing cares hi this, as yet, strange 
country- gloomy conjectures in the dark vista 
of futurity— consciousness of mv own inability 
for the struggle of the world— my broadened 
mark to misfortune in a wife and children:— I 
could indulge these reflections till my humour 
should ferment into the most acrid chagrin, that 
would corrode the very thread of life. 

To counterwork these baneful feelings, I have 
sat down to write to you: as 1 declare upon my 
soul, I always find that the most sovereign balm 
for my wounded spirit 

I was yesterday at Mr. 's to dinner, for tin- 
first time. Mv reception was quite to my mind ; 
from the lady of the house quite flattering. She 
sometimes hits on a couplet or two, impromptu. 
She repeated one or two. to the admiration of all 
present. My suffrage as a professional man was 
expected: 1 for once went agonizing over the 
belly of my conscience. Pardon me, ye, my 
adored household gods, Independence of spirit, 
and Integrity of Soul! In the course of conver- 
sation " Johnson's Musical Museum," a collection 
of Scottish song--, with the music, was talked of. 
We got a song on the harpsichord, beginning— 
" Raving winds around her blowing." 

The air was much admired : the lady of the 
house asked me whose were the words— '-.Mini-, 
madam— they are indeed my verv best -. 
she took not the smallest notice* of them! The 
old Scottish proverb says, well "king's caff is 
better than ither folks' corn." I Avas going to 
make a New-Testament quotation about "cast- 
ing pearls :" but that would be too virulent, for 
the lady is actually a woman of good taste. 



After all that has been said on the other side 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



of the question, man is by no means a happy 
creature. I do not speak of the selected few, 
favoured by partial heaven, whose souls are 
tuned to gladness amid riches and honours, and 
prudence and wisdom, — 1 speak of the neglected 
many, whose nerves, whose sinews, whose days, 
are sold to the minion of fortune. 

If I thought yon had never seen it, I would 
transcribe for you a stanza of an old Scottish 
ballad, called "The Life and Age of Man," be- 
ginning thus— 

" 'Twas in the sixteenth hunder vear 

Of God and fifty three, 
Frae Christ was born, that bought us dear, 

As writings testifle." 

I had 'an old grand-uncle, with whom my 
mother lived a while in her girlish years ; the 
good old man. for such he was. was long blind 
ere he died, during which time his highest en- 
joyment was to sit down and cry, while my 
mother would sin? the simple old song of "The 
Life and Age of Man.'' 

It is this way of thinking— it is those melan- 
choly truths, that make religion so precious to 
the poor, miserable children of men— If it is a 
mere phantom, existing only in the heated ima- 
gination of enthusiasm, 

' ; What truth on earth so precious as the lie !'' 
My idle reasonings sometimes make me a little 
sceptical but the necessities of my heart always 
give the cold philosophizings the lie. Who looks 
for the heart weaned from earth ; the soul af- 
fianced to her God; the correspondence fixer 
with heaven ; the pious supplication and devoui 
thanksgiving, constant as the vicissitudes of 
even and morn : who thinks to meet with these 
in the court, the palace, in the glare of public 
life ? 270: to find them in their precious import- 
ance and divine efficacy, we must search among 
the obscure recesses of disappointment, afflic- 
tion, poverty, and distress. 

I am sure, dear madam, you are now more 
than pleased with the length of my letters. I 
return to Ayrshire, middle of next week: and it 
quickens my pace to think that there jwill be a 
letter from you waiting me there. I must be 
here again very soon for my harvest. 



xo. XLV. 
O. E. GRAHAM, OF FIXTRY, ESQ. 
Sir,— 

When I had the honour of being introduced to 
you at Athole House. I did not think so soon of 
asking a favour of you. 'When Lear, in Shak- 
spere, asks old Kent why he wished to be in 
his service, he answers, '• Because you have in 
your face which I could like to call master." 
For some such reason, sir, do I now solicit your 
patronage. You know, I dare say, of an applica- 
tion I lately made to your Board to be admitted 
an officer of excise. I have, according to form, 
been examined by a supervisor, and to-dav I 
give in his certificate, with a request for'an 
order for instructions. In this affair, if I 
succeed. I am afraid I shall but too much need a 
patronizing friend. Propriety of conduct as a 
man, and fidelity and attention as an officer. I 
dare engage for; but with anything like busi- 
ness, except manual labour. I am totally ah- 
acquainted. 



I had intended to have closed mv Late appear- 
ance on the stage of life, in the character of a 
country farmer: but after discharging some 
filial and fraternal claims, I find 1 could only 
fight for existence in that miserable manner, 
which I have lived to see throw a venerable 
parent into the jaws of gaol ; whence death, the 



1 know, sir, that to need your goodness is to 
have a claim on it ; may I therefore beg your 
. patronage to forward me in this affair, till I be 
appointed to a division, where, bv the help of 
rigid economy, I will try to support that inde- 
pendence so dear to my soul, but which has been 
too often so distant from my situation. 



xo. slvl 
TO MR. P. HILL. 

Mauchhne, 1st October, 1788. 
I have been here in this country about three 
days, and all that time mv chief reading has 
been the " Address to Loch Lomond " you were 
so obliging as to send to me. Were I impan- 
nelled one of the author's jurv. to determine' his 
criminality respecting the sin of poesy, mv ver- 
dict should he ■■Guilty! A poet of Nature's 
making!'' It is an excellent method for improve- 
ment, and what I believe every poet does, to 
place some favourite classic author, in his own 

j walks of study and composition, before him, as a 
model. Though your author had not mentioned 
the name. I could have, at half a glance, guessed 
his model to be Thomson. Will my brother 
poet forgive me, if I venture to hint, that his 

I imitation of that immortal bard is. in two or 
three places, rather more servile than such a 
genius as his required.— e.g., 

To soothe the madding passions all to peace, 

ADDRESS. 

To soothe the throbbing passions into peace, 
Thomson. 

I think the "Address "is, in simplicity, har- 
mony, and elegance of versification, fullv equal 
to the " Seasons." Like Thomson, too, he has 
looked into nature for himself, you meet with 
no copied description. One narticular criticism 
I made at first reading: in no one instance has 
lie said too much. He never flags in his pro- 
gress, but, like a true poet of Nature's makinr/, 
kindles in bis course. His beginning is simple, 
and modest, as if distrustful of the strength of 
his pinion ; only, I do not altogether like 

"Truth, 
The soul of every song that's nobly great." 

Fiction is the soul of many a song that is noblv 
great. Perhaps I am wrong: this may be but a 
prose criticism. Is not the phrase, in line 7, p. 
6, "Great lake," too much vulgarized by every- 
day language for so sublime a poem? 

"Great mass of waters, thence for nobler song," 
is perhaps no emendation. His enumeration of 
a comparison with other lakes is at once har- 
monious and poetic. Every reader's ideas must 
sweep the 

" Winding margin of an hundred miles." 
The perspective that follows mountains blue— 
the imprisoned billows beating in vain— the 
wooded isles— the digression on the yew-tree— 
"Ben Lomond's lofty cloud-enveloped head," 
«fcc, are beautiful. A thunderstorm is a subject 
which has been often tried ; yet our poet, in his 
grand picture, has interjected a circumstance, 
so far as I know, entirely original : 

Deep seam'd with frequent streaks of moving 
fire.' 

In his preface to the storm, "the glens how 
dark between." is noble highland landscape! 

'.''■ " ' - ■' :■■ - ■'.. ■ ' - ' .:. .. . ■ . ;- :- 
fully fancied. Ben Lomond's "loftv, pathless 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



top," is a good expression; and the surrounding 

view from it is truly great ; the 

'• Silver mist, 
[Beneath the beaming sun," 

is well described : and here he has contrived to 
enliven his jioem with a little of that passion 
which bids fair, I think, to usurp the modern 
muses altogether. I know not how far this 
episode is 'a beauty upon the whole, but the 
swain's wish to carry -some faint idea of the 
vision bright,'' to entertain her '-partial listen- 
ing ear,'' is a pretty thought. But, in mv 
opinion, the most beautiful passages in the 
whole poem are the fowls crowding, in wintry 
frosts, to Loch Lomond's ''hospitable flood;'' 
their wheeling round, their lighting, mixing, 
diving, <fcc, and the glorious description of the 
sportsman. This last is equal to anvthiiig in the 
••Seasons." The idea of "the floating tribes dis- 
tant - 'in. far glistering to the moon," provoking 
his eye as he is obliged to leave them, is a noble 
ray of poetic genius. "The howling winds." the 
"hideous roar" of '-the white cascades." arejall 
in the same style. 

I forget, that while I am thus holding forth, 
with the heedless warmth of an enthusiast, 1 
am perhaps tiring you with nonsense. I must, 
however, mention, that the last verse of the 
sixteenth page is one of the most elegant com- 
pliments 1 have ever seen. I must likewise 
notice that beautiful paragraph, beginning. 
"The gleaming lake." Are. I dan- not go into 
the particular beauties of the two last para- 
graphs, but they are admirably line, and truly 
Ossianic. 

I mil-! beg your pardon for this lengthened 
scrawl. I had no idea of it when 1 began— J 
should like to kllOW who the author i-: hut, 
whoever he be, please present him with my 
grateful thanks for the entertainment he has 
afforded me.* 

A friend of mine desired me to commission for 
him two books, •• Letters on the Religion Essen- 
tial to Man," a book you sent me before; and. 
••The World Unmasked ; or. the Philosopher the 
Greatest Cheat. "—Send me them by the first 
opportunity. The Bible you sent me is truly 
elegant; I only wish it had been in two 
volumes. 



No. LXVII. 

TO .MRS. DUNLOP, AT MOREHAM MAINS. 

Mauchline, 13th Jovembe, 1788. 
Map am. - 
I had the very great pleasure Of dining at Dun- 
lop yesterday. Men are said to flatter women 
because thev are weak: if it is so. poets must be 
weaker still; for Misses R. ami K.. ami Mis- 
G. MTv.. with their flattering attentions and 
artful compliments, absolutely turned my head. 
I own they did not lard me over as many a poet 

docs his patron : but 

they so intoxicated me with their sly insinua- 
tion's and delicate innendoes of compliment, that, 
if it had not been for a lucky recollection how 
much additional lustre your good opinion and 
friendship must give me in that circle, I had 
certainly looked upon myself as a person of no 
small consequence, i dare not say one word 
how much I was charmed with the major's 
friendly welcome, elegant manner, and acute 
remarks, lest I should be thought to balance my 

* The poem entitled " An Address to Loch Lo- 
mond." is said to be written by a gentleman, now 
one of the masters of the High School at Edin- 
burgh, and the same who translated the beauti- 
ful story of the Paria, as published in the Bee of 
Dr. Anderson. 



orientalisms of applause over against the finest 
quey* in Ayrshire, which he made a present of, 
to help and' adorn my farm-stock. As it was ou 
hallow-dav, I am determined annually, as that 
day returns, to decorate her horns with an ode 
of gratitude to the family of Dunlop. 



- So soon as I know of your arrival at Dunlop. I 
will take the first convenience to dedicate a day, 
or perhaps two. to yon and friendship, under the 
guarantee of the major's hospitality. There 
will soon be threescore and ten miles of per- 
manent distance between us; and now that your 
friendship and friendly correspondence is en- 
twisted with the heart-strings of my enjoyment 
of life, I must indulge myself in a happy day of 
'• The feast of reason and the flow of soul." 



NO. XLVIII. 

[To the Editor of the Edinburgh Evening 
Courant.} 

Novembers, 1788. 
Sin,— 
Notwithstanding theopprobrious epithets with 

which some of our philosophers and gloomy 
sectaries have branded our nature— the principle 
of universal selfishness, the proiiess to evil, 
tiny have given as,— still the detestation in 
which inhumanity to the distressed, or insolence 
to the fallen, are held by all mankind, shows 
that they are not natives of the human heart. 
Even the unhappy partner of our kind who i- 
undone— the bitter consequence of his follies or 
his crimes.— who but sympathizes with the 
miseries of this ruined profligate brother? We 
forget the injuries, and feel for the man. 

1 went last Wednesday to my parish church. 
most cordially to join in grateful acknowledg- 
ment- to the Ai'Tinui of ALL <i'>i». for the con- 
sequent blessings of the glorious revolution. To 
that auspicious event we owe no less than our 
liberties, civil and religions; to it we are like- 
wise indebted for the present royal family, the 
ruling features in whose administration have 
ever been, mildness to the subject, and tender- 
ness of his rights. 

Bred and educated in revolution principles, 
the principles of reason and common sense, it 
could not be any silly political prejudice which 
made mv heart revolt at the harsh, abusive 
manner in which the reverend gentleman 
mentioned the House of Stuart, and which 1 am 
afraid was too much the language of the day. 
We may rejoice sufficiently in our deliverance 
from past evils, without cruelly raking op the 
ashes of thoscwhose misfortune it was. perhaps 
as much as their crime, to be the authors of 
those evils; and we may bless (ion for all his 
goodness to us as a nation, without, at the same 
time, cursing a few ruined, powerless exiles, 
who onlv harboured ideas, and made attempts, 
that most of ns would have done had we been 

i their situation. 

"The bloody and tyrannical House of Stuart " 
_jay be said." with propriety and justice, when 
compared with the present royal family, and 
the sentiments of onr days: but is there no 
allowance to be made for the manners of the 
times? Were the roval contemporaries of the 
Stuarts more attentive to their subjects, rights? 
—Might not the epithets of bloody and tyrannical 
be with at least equal justice applied to the 
House of Tudor, of York, or any of their pre- 
decessors ? 

The simple state of the case. sir. seems to be 
this— At that period, the science of government, 
the knowledge of the true relation between king 
and subject, was, like other sciences and other 



< Heifer, 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



151 



knowledge, just in its infancy, emerging from ] 
dark ages of ignorance and barbarity. 

The Stuarts only contended for prerogatives I 
■which they knew their predecessors enjoyed, 
and which they saw their contemporaries enjoy- 
ing; but these prerogatives were inimical to 
the happiness of a nation, and the rights of sub- 
jects. 

In this contest between prince and people, the 
consequence of that light of science, which had 
lately dawned over Europe, the monarch of 
France, for example, was victorious over the 
struggling liberties of his people: with us, 
luckily, the monarch failed, and his unwarrant- 
able pretensions fell a sacrifice to our rights and 
happiness. Whether it was owing to the wisdom 
of leading individuals, or to the justling of 
parties, I cannot pretend to determine ; but 
likewise, happily for ns, the kingly power was 
shifted into another branch of the family, who, 
as they owed the throne solely to the call of a 
free people, could claim nothing inconsistent 
with the covenanted terms which placed them 
there. 

The Stuarts have been condemned and laughed 
at for the folly and impracticability of their at- 
tempts in 1715 and 1745. That they failed, I bless 
God ; but cannot join in the ridicule against 
them. Who does not know that the abilities or 
defects of leaders and commanders are often 
hidden until put to the toughstone of exigency; 
and that there is a caprice of fortune, an omni- 
potence in particular accidents and conjunctures 
of circumstances, which exalt ns as heroes, or 
brand us as madmen, just as they are for or 
against us? 

Man, Mr. Publisher, is a strange, weak, incon- 
sistent being. Who would believe, sir. that in 
this our Augustan age of liberality and refine- 
ment—while we seem so justly sensible and 
jealous of our rights and liberties, and animated 
with such indignation against the very memory 
of those who would have subverted them,— that 
a certain people, under our national protection, 
should complain, not against our monarch and a 
few favourite advisers, but against our whole 
legislative body for similar" oppression, and 
almost in the very same terms, as our forefathers 
did of the House of Stuart! 1 will not, I cannot 
enter into the merits of the cause; but I dare say 
the American Congress, in 1776, will be allowed 
to be as able and as enlightened as the English 
convention was in 1688 ; and that their posterity 
will celebrate the centenary of their deliverance 
from us as duly and sincerely as we do ours 
from the oppressive measures of the wrong- 
headed House of Stuart. 

To conclude, sir; let every man whohas a tear 
for the many miseries incident to humanity, feel 
for a family illustrious as any in Europe, and 
unfortunate beyond historic precedent ; and let 
every Briton (and particularly every Scotsman), 
who ever looked with reverential pity on tiie 
dotage of a parent, cast a veil over the fatal mis- 
takes of the kings of his forefathers.* 



NO. XLIX. 

TO MRS. D US LOP, 

Ellisland, 11th December, 1788. 
My Dear Honoured Friexd,— 
Yours, dated Edinburgh, which I have just read, 
makes me very unhappy. Almost '-blind and 
wholly deaf" are melancholy news of human 
nature ; but when told of a much-loved and 
honoured friend, they carry misery in thesonnd. 
Goodness on your part, and gratitude on mine, 



* This letter was sent to the publisher of some 
newspaper, probably the publisher of the Edin- 
burgh Evening Couront. 



began a tie which has gradually and strongly 
entwisted itself among the dearest chords of my 
bosom ; and 1 tremble at the omens of your late 
and present ailing habits and shattered health. 
You miscalculate matters widely when you for- 
bid my waiting on you, lest it should hurt my 
worldly concerns. "My small scale of farming is 
exceedingly more simple and easy than what 
you have lately seen at Moreham Main. But be 
that as it may, the heart of the man, and the 
fancy of the poet, are the two grand considera- 
tions for which Hive; if miry ridges and dirty 
dunghills are to engross the best part of the 
functions of my soul immortal, 1 had better have 
been a rook or a magpie at once, and then I 
should not have been plagued with any ideas 
superior to breaking of clods, and picking up 
grubs ; not to mention barn-door cocks or mal- 
lards, creatures with which I could almost ex- 
change lives at any time.— If you continue so 
deaf, 1 am afraid a visit will be no great pleasure 
to either of us ; but I hear you are got so well 
again as to be able to relish conversation, look 
you to it, madam, for I will make my threaton- 
ingsgood: I am to beat the new-year-day fair 
of Ayr, and by all that is sacred in the world, 
friend, I will come and see you. 



- Your meeting, which you so well describe, with 
your old schoolfellow and friend, was truly in- 
teresting. Out upon the ways of the world! — 
They spoil these " social offsprings of the heart." 
Two veterans of the " men of the world" would 
have met with little more heart-workings than 
two old hacks worn out. on the road. Apropos, 
is not the Scotch phrase, " Auld lang syne," ex- 
ceedingly expressive V There is an old song and 
true which has often thrilled through my soul. 
You know 1 am an enthusiast in old Scotch 
songs. 1 shall give you the verses on the other 
sheet, as I suppose Mr. Ker will save you the 
postage.* 

Light be the turf on the breast of the Heaven- 
inspired poet who composed this glorious frag- 
ment! There is more of the fire of native genius 
in it than in half a dozen of modern English 
Bacchanalians. 



TO A YOUNG LADY. 



December, 1788. 
Madam,— 
I understand my very worthy neighbour, Mr. 
Riddel, h*s informed you that! have made you 
the subject of some verses. There is something 
so provoking in the idea of being the burden of 
a ballad, that I do not think Job or Moses, 
though such patterns of patience and meekness, 
could have resisted the curiosity to know what 
the ballad was : so my worthy friend has done 
me a mischief, which I dare say he never in- 
tended; and reduced me to the unfortunate 
alternative of leaving your curiosity ungratified, 
or else disgusting you with foolish verses, the 
unfinished production of a random moment, and 
never meant to have reached your ear. I have 
heard or read somewhere of a gentleman, who 
had some genius, much eccentricity, and very 
considerable dexterity with his pencil. In the 
accidental groups of life into which one is 
thrown, wherever this gentleman met with a 
character in a more than ordinary degree con- 
genial to his heart, he used to steal a sketch of 
the face— merely, he said, as nota-bene, to point 
out the agreeable recollection to his memory. 
What this gentleman's pencil was to him, is my 



* Here follows the song of " Auld lang syne,' 



152 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



mnse to me; and the verses I do myself the 
honour to send you are a memento exactly of 
the same kind that he indulged in. 

It may be more owing to the fastidiousness of 
my caprice, than the delicacy of my taste, that 
I am so often tired, disgusted, and hurt with the 
insipidity, affectation, and pride of mankind, 
that when I meet with a person "after my 
own heart,'' I positively feel what an orthodox 
Protestant would call a species of idolatry which 
acts on my fancy like inspiration, and I can no 
more desist from rhyming on the impulse, than 
an JEolian harp can refuse its tones to the 
streaming air. A distich or two would be the 
consequence though the object which hit my 
fancy were grey-bearded age; but where mv 
theme is youth and beauty— a young lady whose 
personal charms, wit, and sentiment are 
equally striking and unaffected,— by heavens! 
though I had lived threescore years a married 
man, and threescore years before I was a mar- 
ried man, ray imagination would hallow the 
vet - }- idea; and 1 am truly sorry that the en- 
closed stanzas have done such poor justice to a 
subject. 



TO SIR JOHN WIIITEFORD. 

December, 1788. 
Si R.- 
Mr. M'Keneie, in Mauchline, my very warm 
and worthy friend, has informed me how ranch 
you ate pleased to interest yourself in my fate 
us a man. and (what to me is incomparably 
dearer; my fame as a poet. I have, sir, in one 
or two instances, been patronised by those of 
yonr character in life, when I was introduced to 

their notice by friends to them, and ho- 

nonoured acquaintance to me ; but you are the 
first gentleman in the country Whose benevo- 
lence and goodness of heart has interested him 
for me, unsolicited and unknown. I am not 
master enough of the etiquette of these matters 
to know, nor did 1 stay to inquire, whether 
formal duty bade, or cold propriety disallowed, 
my thanking you in this manner, as Iain con- 
vinced, from the light in which you kindly view 
me, that you will do me the justice to believe 
this letter is not the manoeuvre of a needy. 
sharping author, fastening on those in upper 
life, who honour him with a little notice of him 
or his works. Indeed, the situation of poets is 
generally such, to a proverb, as may. in some 
measure, palliate that prostitution of heart and 
talents they have been guiltv of. I ^o not think 
prodigality is by anv means a necessary con- 
comitant of poetic turn, but believe a careless, 
indolent, inattention to economy, is almost in- 
separable from it; and there must be in the 
heart of every bard of Nature's making a cer- 
tain modest sensibility, mixed with a kind of 
pride, that will ever keep him out of the way of 
those windfalls of fortune that frequently light 
on hardy impudence and foot-licking servility. 
It is not easy to imagine a more helpless state 
than his whose poetic fancy unfits him for the 
world, and whose character as a scholar gives 
him some pretensions to the politesse of life— yet 
is as poor as I am. 

For my part, I thank heaven, mv star has 
been kinder; learning never elevated my ideas 
above the peasant's shed, and I have ail inde- 
pendent fortune at the plough-tail. 

1 was surprised to hear that anv one, who 
pretended in the least to the manners of the 
gentleman, should be so foolish, or worse, as to 
stoop to traduce the morals of such a one as I 
am. and so inhumanly cruel, too, as to meddle 
with that late must unfortunate, unhappy part 
of my story. With a tear of gratitude, 1 thank 
you, sir, for the warmth with which you inter- 



posed in behalf of my conduct. I am, I acknow- 
ledge, too frequently the sport of whim, caprice, 
and passion : but reverence to God, and in- 
tegrity to my fellow-creatures, I hope I shall 
ever preserve. I have no return, sir, to make you 
for your goodness but one— a return which. Tarn 
persuaded, will not be unacceptable— the honest, 
warm wishes of a grateful heart for your happi- 
ness, and every one of that lovely flock, who 
stand to you in a filial relation. If ever calumny 
aim the poisoned shaft at them, may friendship 
be by to guard the blow! 



FROM 31 R. G. BURNS. 

Mossgiel, 1st January, 1789. 
Dear Brother,— 
I have just finished my New-year's-day break- 
fast in the usual form, which naturally makes 
me call to mind the days of former years, and 
the society in which wc used to begin them; 
and when I look at our family vicissitudes, 
"through the dark postern of timclongelapsed," 
I cannot help remarking to you, my dear 
brotle-i-. how good the God of Seasons is to us; 
and that however some clouds may seem to 
lower over the portion of time before us. we 
have great reason to hope that all will turn out 
well. 

Your mother and sisters, with Robert the 
second, join me in the compliments of the sea- 
son to you and .Mrs. Burns, and beg you will 
remember us in the same manner to William, 
the first time you SPe him. 

I am, dear brother, yours, 

Gilbert Burns. 



NO. LIII. 
To MRS. DUNLOP. 
EUis1ai»l, New-Year-Dav Morning, 1789. 
Tin-, dear madam, is a morning of wishes; and 
would to (ion that I came under the apostle 
James's description I— the prayer of a righteous 
man availeth much. In that ease, madam, you 
should welcome in a year full of blessings; 
everything that obstructs or disturbs tran- 
quillity and self-enjoyment should be removed, 
and every pleasure that frail humanity can 
taste should be yours. I own myself so little a 
Presbyterian, that I approve of set times and 
! more than ordinary acts of devotion, 
for breaking in on that habituated routine of life 
and thought which is so apt to reduce our ex- 
istence to a kind of instinct, or even sometimes, 
and with some minds, to a state very little su- 
perior to mere machinery. 

This day— the first Sunday of May,— a breezy, 
blue-skyed noon some time about the beginning, 
and a hoary morning and calm sunny day about 
the end, of autumn ;— these, time out of mind, 
have been with me a kind of holiday. 



I believe I owe this to that glorious paper in 
the •■ spectator," '-The Vision of Mirza"— a piece 
that struck my fancy before I was capable of 
fixing an idea to a word of three syllables : '• On 
the 5th of the moon, which, according to the 
custom of my forefathers, I always keep holy, 
after having washed mvself, and offered up my 
morning devotions, I ascended the high hill of 
Bagdat, in order to pass the rest of the day in 
meditation and prayer." 

We know nothing, or next to nothing, of the 
substance or structure of our souls, so cannot 
account for those seeming caprices, in them, 



of a different cast, makes no extraordinary im- 
pression. 1 have some favourite flowers in 






CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



153 



spring, among -which are the mountain daisy, 
the hare-hell, the fox-glove, wild-brier rose, the 
budding birch, and the hoary hawthorn, that 1 
view and hang over with peculiar delight. I 
never heard the loud, solitary whistle of the 
curlew, in a summer noon, or the wild mixing 
cadence of a troop of grey plovers, in an autum- 
nal morning, without feeling an elevation of 
soul like the enthusiasm of devotion or poetry. 
Tell me, my dear friend, to what can this be 
owing? Are we a piece of machinery, which, 
like the iEolian harp, passive, takes the impres- 
sion of the passing accident ? Or do these work- 
ings argue something within us above the trod- 
den clod? I own myself partial to such proofs 
of those awful and important realities— a God 
-that made all things— man's immaterial and 
immortal nature— and a world of weal and woe 
beyond death and the grave. 



NO. LIV. 

TO DR. MOORE. 
Ellisland, near Dumfries, 1th Jan. 1789. 
Sir- 
As often as I think of writing to you, which has 
been three or four times every week, these six 
months, it gives me something so like the idea 
of an ordinary statue offering at a conversation 
with the Rhodian Colossus, that my mind mis- 
gives me, and the affair always miscarries 
somewhere between purpose and resolve. I 
have, at last, got some business with yon, and 
business-letters are written by the style-book— 
1 say my business is with you, sir, for you have 
never had any with me, except the business 
that benevolence has in the manner of poverty. 
The character and employment of a poet were 
formerly my pleasure, but are now my pride. I 
know that a very great deal of my late eclat was 
owing to the singularity of my situation, and 
the honest prejudice of Scotsmen: but still, as 
I said in the preface to my first edition, 1 do 
look upon myself as having some pretensions 
from Nature to the poetic character. 1 have not 
a doubt but the knack, the aptitude, to learn the 
muses' trade, is a gift bestowed by Him -'who 
forms the secret bias of the soul;"— but as I 
firmly believe, that excellence in the profession is 
the fruit of industry, labour, attention, and 
pains. At least 1 am resolved to try my doctrine 
by the test of experience. Another appearance 
from the press 1 put off to a very distant day, 
a day that may never arrive; but poesy I ain 
determined to prosecute with all my vigour. 
Nature has given very few, if any, of the pro- 
fession the talents of shining in every species 
of composition. I shall try (for until "trial it is 
impossible to know) whether she has qualified 
me to shine in any one. The worst of it is, by 
the time one has finished a piece, it has been so 
often viewed and reviewed before the mental 
eye, that one loses, in a good .measure, the 
powers of critical discrimination. Here the 
best criterion 1 know is a friend— not only of 
abilities to judge, but with good nature enough 
like a prudent teacher with a young learner, to 
praise perhaps a little more than exactly just, 
lest the thin-skinned animal fall into that most 
deplorable of all poetic diseases— heart-breaking 
despondency of himself. Dare I, sir, already 
immensely indebted to your goodness, ask the 
additional obligation of your being that friend 
to me? 1 enclose you an essay of mine, in a 
walk of poesy to me entirely new ; 1 mean the 
epistle addressed to R. G., Esq. or, Robert Gra- 
ham, of Fintry, Esq., a gentleman of uncommon 
worth, to whom 1 lie under very great obliga- 
tions. The story of the poem, like most of my 
poems, is connected with my own story, and, to 
give you the one, I must giveyou something of the 
other. 1 cannot boast of 



1 believe 1 shall, in whole, £100 copy-right in- 
cluded, clear about £400 some little odds; and 
even part of this depends upon what the gentle- 
man has yet to settle with me. I give you this 
information, because you did me the honour to 
interest yourself much in my welfare. 



To give the rest of my story in brief. I have 
married "my Jean," and taken a farm; with the 
first step, 1 have every day more and more rea- 
son to be satisfied , with the last, it is rather the 
reverse.— I have a younger brother, who sup- 
ports my aged mother; another still younger 
brother and three sisters in a farm. On my last 
return from Edinburgh, it cost me about £180 
to save them from ruin. Not that 1 have lost 
so much— I only interposed between my brother 
and his impending fate by the loan of so much. 
I give myself no airs on this, for it was mere 
selfishness on my part ; I was conscious that the 
wrong scale of the balance was pretty heavily 
charged; and 1 thought that throwing a little 
filial piety and fraternal affection into the scale 
in my favour might help to smooth matters at 
the grand reckoning. There is still one thing 
would make my circumstances quite easy; I 
have an excise officer's commission, and 1 live 
in the midst of a country division. My request 
to Mr. Graham, who is one of the commissioners 
of excise, was, if in his power, to procure me 
that division. If I were very sanguine, I might 
hope that some of my great patrons might pro- 
cure me a treasury warrant for supervisor, sur- 
veyor-general, Arc. 

Thus secure of a livelihood, "to thee, sweet 
poetry, delightful maid," I would consecrate my 
future days. 



NO. LV. 

TO BISHOP GEDDES. 
Elhsland, near Dumfries, 3rd February, 1789. 
Venerable Father,— 

As I am conscious that wherever I am you do 
me the honour to interest yourself in my wel- 
fare, it gives me pleasure to inform you that I 
am here at last, stationary in the serious busi- 
ness of life, and have now not only the retired 
leisure, but the hearty inclination, to attend to 
those great and important questions— what I 
am ? where I am? and for what I am destined? 

In that first concern, the conduct of the man, 
there was ever but one side on which I was 
habitually blameable, and there I have secured 
myself in the way pointed out by Nature and 
Nature's God. I w r as sensible that to so help- 
less a creature as a poor poet, a wife and family 
were incumbrances, which a species of prudence 
would bid him shun; but when the alterna- 
tive was. being at eternal warfare with myself, 
on account of habitual follies, to give them no 
worse name, which no general example, no 
licentious wit, no sophistical infidelity would, 
to me, ever justify, 1 must have been a fool to 
have hesitated, and a madman to have made 
another choice. 

In the' affair of a livelihood, I think myself 
tolerably secure; I have good hopes of my farm; 
but should they fail, I have an excise commis- 
sion, which, on'my simple petition, will, at any 
time, procure me bread. There is a certain 
stigma affixed to the character of an excise 
officer, but 1 do not intend to borrow honour 
from any profession ; and though the salary be 
comparatively sraail, it is great to anything 
that the first twenty-five years of my life taught 
me to expect. 

Thus, with a rational aim and method in life, 
you may easily guess, my reverend and much- 



154 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



honoured friend, that my characteristical trade 
is not forgotten. I am, if possible, more than 
ever an enthusiast to the muses. I am deter- 
mined to study man and nature, and in that 
view incessantly ; and to try if the ripening and 
corrections of years can enable me to produce 
something worth preserving. 

You will see in your book, which I beg your 
pardon for detaining so long, that I have been 
turning my lyre on the banks of Nith. Some 
larger poetic plans that are floating in my imagi- 
nation, or partly put in execution, I shall impart 
to you when I have the pleasure of meeting you, 
which, if you are then in Edinburgh, I shall 
have about the beginning of March. 

That acquaintance, worthy sir, with which 
you were pleased to honour me, you most still 
allow me to challenge: for with whatever un- 
concern I give up my transient connection with 
the merely great, I cannot lose the patronizing 
notice of the learned and the good without the 
bitterest regret. 



NO. LVI. 
T M R S. I) UNLO T. 

Elluland, uh March, 1789. 
Here am I. my honoured friend, returned safe 

Hum the capital. To a man who has a home, 
however humble or remote— If that home is like 
mine, the scene ol domestic comrort,— the bnstle 

of Edinburgh will soon be a business of sickness 

and disgust. 

"Vain pomp and glory of this world, I hate 

When 1 must skulk Into a corner, less the rat- 
tling equipage of some gaping blockhead should 
mangle me in the mire, I am tempted t.> exclaim 
— ••What merits has he had. or what demerit 
have I had. In some state of pre-existencc, that 
he is ushered into this state of being with the 
sceptre of rule, and the key of riches, in his 
piuiy list, and I am kicked into the world, the 
sport of folly or the victim of pride?'' I have 
read somewhere of a monarch (In Spain, I think 
it was), who was so out of humour with the 
Ptolemean system of astronomy, that he said, 
had he been of the Creator's council, he could 
have saved him a great deal of labour and 
absurdity. I will not defend this blasphemous 
speech ; but often, as I have glided with humble 
stealth through the pomp of Prince's Street, it 
lias suggested itself to me, as an improvement 
on the present human figure, that a man. in pro- 
portion to his own conceit of his consequence in 
the world, could have pushed out the longitude 
of his common size, as a snail pushes out his horns, 
or as we draw a perspective. This trifling altera- 
tion, not to mention the prodigious saving it would 
be in the tear and wear of the neck and limb- 
sinews of many of his Majesty's liege subjects, in 
The wav of tossing the head and tip-toe strutting. 
would evidently mm out a vast advantage, in 
enabling us at once to adjust the ceremonials in 
making a bow. or making wav to a great man, 
and that too within a second of the precise 
spherical angle of reverence, or an inch of the 
particular point of respectful distance, which the 
important creature itself requires: as a measur- 
ing glance at its towering altitude would deter- 
mine the affair like instinct. 

You are right, madam, in vour idea of poor 
Mvlne's poem, which he has addressed to me. 
The piece has a good deal of merit, but it has one 
great fault— it is, by far. too long. Besides, mv 
success has encouraged such a shoal of ill- 
spawned monsters to crawl into public, notice, 
under the title of Scottish Poets, that the very 
term of Scottish Poetrv borders on the burlesque. 
"When I write to Mr. C, I shall advise him rather 
to trv one of his deceased friend's English pieces. 



I am prodigiously hurried with my own matters, 
else I would have requested a perusal of all 
Mylne's poetic performances; and would have 
offered his friends my assistance in either select- 
ing or correcting what would be proper for the 
press. What is it that occupies me so much, and 
perhaps a little oppresses my present spirits, 
shalt fill up a paragraph in some future letter. 
In the meantime, allow me to close this epistle 
with a few lines done by a friend of mine 

I give you them, 

that, as you have seen the original, you may 
guess whether one or two alterations I have 
ventured to make in them be any real improve- 
ment. 

Like the fair plant that from our touch with- 
draws, 
Shrink mildly fearful even from applause. 
Be all a mother's fondess hope can dream, 

And all you are, mv chaining , seem. 

Straight as the fox-glove, ere her bells disclose, 
Mild as the maiden-blushing hawthorn blow-. 
Fair as the the fairest of each lovely kind. 
Your form shall be the image of your mind: 
Your manners shall so true vour soul c\ 
That all shall long to know the worth they 

guess ; 
i 'oiigeiiial hearts shall greet with kindred love, 
And L'v'u sick'nlng envy must approve.* 



No. LVII. 

TO THE REV. P. CAEFRAE. 

Reverend Sib,— 

I do not recollect that 1 have ever felt a severer 
pang of shame than on looking at the date of 
your obliging letter, which accompanied Mr. 
Mylne's poem. 

I am much to blame : the honour Mr. Mylne has 
done in'-, greatly enhanced in its value by the 
endearing, though melancholy, circumstance of 
its being the last production of his muse, de- 
served a better return. 

I have, as you hint, thought of sending n copy 
of the poem to some periodical publication: but. 
on second thoughts, I am afraid that, in the 
present case, it would be an improper step. .Mv 
success, perhaps as much accidental as merited, 
has brought an inundation of nonsense under 
the name of Scottish poetrv. Subscription bills 
for Scottish poems have so dunned, and daily do 
dun the public, that the very name is in danger 
of contempt. For these reasons, if publishing 
any of Mr. M.'s poems in a magazine, A:c, be it 
at all prndent, in my opinion it certainly should 
not be a Scotch poem. The profits of the labours 
of a man of genius are, I hone, as honourable as 
anv profits whatever: and Mr. Mylne's relations 
are most justly entitled to that honest harvest 
which fate has denied himself to reap. Put let 
the friends of Mr Mvlne's fame (among whom I 
crave the honour of ranking myself) always 
keep in eye his respectability as a man and a 
poet, and take no measure that, before the 
world knows anything about him. would risk his 
name and character being classed with the fools 
of the times. 

I have, sir, some experience of publishing; 
and the way in which I would proceed with Mr. 
Mvlne's poems is this:— I would publish in two 
or three English and Scottish public papers any 
one of his English poems which should, by pri- 
vate judges, be thought the most excellent, and 
mention it at the same time as one of the pro- 
ductions of a Lothian farmer, of respectable 



* These beautiful lines, we have reason to be- 
lieve, are the production of the lady to whom 
this letter is addressed. 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



i5J 



character, lately deceased, whose poems his 
friends had it in idea to publish soon, by sub- 
scription, for the sake of his numerous family .— 
not in pity to that family, but in justice to what 
his friends think the poetic merits of the de- 
ceased; and to secure, in the most effectual 
manner, to those tender connexions, whose right 
it is, the pecuniary reward of those merits. 

NO. LVIH. 

TO DR. MOORE. 

Ellisland, 23 rd March, 1780. 
Sir,— 
lhe gentleman who will deliver this is a Mr. 
Nielson, a worthy cieriryman in my neighbour- 
hood, and a very particular acquaintance of 
mine. As I have troubled him with this packet, 
I must turn him over to your goodness, to re- 
compense him for it in a way in which he much 
needs your assistance, and where you can 
effectually serve him :— Mr. Nielson is on his 
way for France, to wait on his Grace of Queens- 
bury, on some little business of a good deal of 
importance to him, and he wishes for your in- 
structions respecting themosj; eligible mode of 
travelling, etc., for him, when he has crossed the 
Channel. I should not have dared to take this 
liberty with you, but that I am told, by those 
who liave the* honour of your personal acquaint- 
ance, that to be a poor honest Scotchman is a 
letter of recommendation to you, and that to 
have it in your power to serve such a character 
gives you much pleasure. 

The enclosed ode is a compliment to the me- 
mory of the late Mrs. , of . You probably 

know her personally, an honour of which I can- 
not boast : but I spent my early years in her 
neighbourhood, and among her servants and 
tenants. I know that she was detested with the 
most heartfelt cordiality. However, in the par- 
ticular part of her conduct which roused my 
poetic wrath, she was much less blameable. In 
January last, on my road to Ayrshire, I had put 
up at Bailie =Wigham's in Sanquhar, the only 
tolerable inn in the place The frost was keen, 
and the grim evening and howling wind was 
ushering in a night of snow and drift. My horse 
and I were very much fatigued with the labours 
of the day; and just as my friend the Bailie and 
I were bidding defiance to the storm, over a 
smoking bowl, in wheels the funeral pageantry 

of the late great Mrs. •, and, poor I, am forced 

to brave all the horrors of the tempestuous 
night, and jade my horse, my young favourite 
horse, whom I had just christened Pegasus, 
twelve miles further on, through the wildest 
mairs and hills of Ayrshire, to New Cumnock, 
the next inn. The powers of poesy and prose 
sink under me when I would describe what I 
felt. Suffice it to say, that when a good fire, at 
New Cumnock, had so far recovered my frozen 
sinews, I sat down and wrote the enclosed ode. 
• I was at Edinburgh lately, and settled finally 
with Mr Creech ; and I must own, that, at last, 
he has been amicable and fair with me. 



Ellisland, 2nd April, 1789. 
I will make no excuses, my dear Bibliopolus, 
(Cod forgive me for murdering language!) that I 
have sat down to write you on this vile paper. 

It is economy, sir; it is that cardinal virtue, 
prudence ; so 1 beg you will sit down, and either 
compose or borrow- a panegyric. If you are going 
to borrow, apply to 



to compose, or rather to compound, something 
very clevei: on my remarkable frugality; that I 



write to one of my most esteemed friends on 
this wretched paper, which was originally in- 
tended for the venal fist ot some drnnken excise- 
man, to take dirty notes in a miserable vault of 
an ale-cellar. 

O frugality! thou mother of ten thousand 
blessings— thou cook of fat beef and dainty 
greens!— thou manufacturer of warm Shetland 
hose and comfortable surtouts '.—thou old house- 
wife, darning thy decayed stockings with thy 
ancient spectacles on thy aged nose ;— lead me, 
hand me in thy clutching, palsied fist, up those 
heights, and through those thickets, hitherto 
inaccessible and impervious to my anxious, 
wearied feet:— not those Parnassian craggs, 
bleak and barren, where the hungry worshippers 
of fame are, breathless, clambering, hanging 
between heaven and hell ; but those glittering 
cliffs of Potosi, where the all-sufficient, all- 
powerful deity, Wealth, holds his immediate 
court of joys and pleasures; where the sunny 
exposure of plenty, and the hot walls of profu- 
sion, produce those blissful fruits of luxury, ex- 
otics in this world, and natives of paradise— 
Thou withered sybil, my sage conductress, usher 
me into the refulgent, adored presence !— The 
power, splendid and potent as he now is, was 
once the puling nursling of thy faithful care, 
and tender arms ! Call me thy son, thy cousin, 
thy kinsman, or favourite, and adjure the god, 
by the scenes of his infant years, no longer to 
repulse me as a stranger or an alien, but to 
favour me with his peculiar countenance and 
protection ! He daily bestows his greatest kind- 
ness on the undeserving and the worthless— 
assure him, that I bring ample documents of 
meritorious demerits! Pledge yourself for me, 
that, for the glorious cause of Lucke, I will do 
anything, be anything— but the horse-leach of 
private oppression, or the vulture of public rob- 
bery ! 

But to descend from heroics, 



I want a Shakspere ; I want likewise an Eng- 
lish dictionary— Johnson's, I suppose, is best. In 
these and all my prose commissions, the cheapest 
is always the best for me. There is a small debt 
of honour that I owe Mr. Robert Cleghorn, in 
Saughton mills, my worthy friend, and your 
well-wisher. Please give him, and urge him to 
take it, the first time you see him, ten shillings'- 
worth of anything you have to sell, and place it 
to ray account. 

The library scheme that I mentioned to you is 
already begun, under the direction of Captain 
Riddel. There is another in emulation of it 
going on at Closeburn, under the auspices of 
Mr. Monteith, of Closeburn, which will be on a 
greater scale than ours. Captain R. gave his 
infant society a great many of his old books, else 
I had written you on that subject ; but, one of 
these days, I shall trouble you with a commis- 
sion for "The Monkland Friendly Society," a 
copy of "The Spectator," "Mirror," and "Loun- 
ger;" "Man of the World," " Guthrie's Geogra- 
phical Grammar," with some religious pieces, will 
likely be our first order. 

When I grow richer, I will write to you on 
gilt post, to make amends for this sheet. At 
present, every guinea has a five-guinea errand 
with - My dear sir. 

Your faithful, poor, but honest friend, 
R. B. 

NO. LX. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, 4th Man, 1789. 
My Dear Sir,— 
Your dutyfree, favour of the 26th April I re- 
ceived two days ago : 1 will not say I perused it 
with pleasure: that is the cold compliment of 



156 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



ceremony; I pertlsed it. sir. with delicious satis- 
faction.— In short, it is such a letter, that not 
you nor your friend, but the legislature, by ex- 
press proviso in their postage laws, should frank. 
A letter informed with the soul of friendship is 
such an honour to human nature, that they 
should order it free ingress and egress to and 
from their bags, and mails, as an encouragement 
and mark of distinction to supereminent virtue. 
I have just put the last hand to a little poem, 
which I think will be something to vonr taste.* 
One morning lately, as I was out pretty early in 
Lhe fields sowing some grass seeds, I heard the 
burst of a shot from a neighbouring plantation, 
and presently a poor little wounded hare came 
crippling by me. You will guess raj- indignation 
nt the inhuman fellow who could shoot a hare at 
this season, when they all of them have young 
ones. Indeed, there is something in that busi- 
ness of destroying, for our sport, individuals in 
the animal creation, that do not injure us 
materially, which 1 could never reconcile to mv 
ideas of virtue. 

Let me know how you like my poem. I am 
doubtful whether it would not be an improve- 
ment to keep out the last stanza but one alto 
gether. 

C is a glorious production of the author of 

man. You, he, and the noble Colonel of the 
C F are, to me, 



I have a good mind to make verses on you all. to 
the tune of "Three good fellows ayontthe glen." 



xo. L>:r. 
TO MR. M'AULEY. 

;-.\rtox. 

4th J: 
DEAR Sir.— 
Though I am not without my fears r 

my fate at that grand, universal inquest of right 
and wrong, commonly called '-The Last Day," 
yet I trust there is one sin which that arch- 
vagabond, Satan, who. I understand, is to be 
king's evidence, cannot throw in my teeth— I 
mean ingratitude. There is a certain pretty 
large quantum of kindness for which I remain, 
and. from inability, I fear, must remain,- your 
debtor; but though unable to repay the debt, I 
assure you, sir, I shall ever warmly remember 
the obligation. It gives me the sincerest plea- 
sure to hear by my old acquaintance, Mr. Ken- 
nedy, that you are, in immortal Allan's language, 
"Hale and weel, and living;" and that your 
charming family are well, and promising to be 
an amiable and respectable addition to the com- 
panv of performers, whom the Great Manager 
of the Drama of Man is bringing into action for 
the succeeding age. 

With respect to my welfare, a subject in which 
you once warmly and effectively interested 
yourself. I am here in my old way, holding my 
plough, marking the growth of mv corn, or the 
health of my dairy: and at times sauntering by 
the delightful windings of the Nith, on the mar- 
gin of which I have built my humble domicile, 
praying for seasonable weather, or holding an 
intrigue with the Muses: the only gipsys with 
whom I have now any intercourse. As I am 
entered into the holv state of matrimonv. I trust 
my face is turned completelv Zion-ward : and as 
it is a rule with all honest fellows to repeat no 
grievances. I hope that the little poetic licences 
of former days will of course fall under the ob- 



livious influence of some good-natured statue of 
celestial proscription. In my family devotion, 
which, like a good presbytefian, I occasionallv 
give to my household folks, I am extremely fond 
of the psalm, "Let not the errors of my youth," 
&c. ; and that other, "Lo. children are God's 
heritage," &c. ; in which last, Mrs. Burns, who, 
by the bye, has a glorious "wood-note wild " at 
either old sons; or psalmody, joins me with the 
pathos of Handel's Messiah. 



NO, LXII. 
TO MRS, DUXLOP. 

Ellisland, 21st June, 1789. 



Wi 



Dear Madam,- 

you take the effusions, the miserable 



usions, of low spirits, just as they flow fro 
their bitter springy I know not of any particular 
cause for this worst of all rny foes besetting me. 
but for some time my soul has been beclouded 
with a thickening atmosphere of evil imagina- 
tions and gloomy presages. 

Mondan Evenina. 

I have just heard give a sernion. 

He is a man famous for his benevolence, and I 
revere him : but from such ideas of my Creator, 
.L'-iod Lord deliver me! Religion, my honoured 
friend, is surely a simple business, as it equally 
concerns the ignorant and the learned, the poor 
and the rich. That there is a great incompre- 
hensible Being, to whom I owe my existence, 
and that he must be intimately acquainted with 
the operations and progress of the internal 
machinery, and consequent outward deport- 
ment, of this creature which lie has made,— these 
are, I think, self-evident propositions. That 
there is a real and eternal distinction between 
virtue and vice, and consequently that I am ah 
accountable creature; that from the seeming 
nature of the human mind, as well as from the 
evident imperfection, nav. positive injustice, in 
the administration of affairs, fWth in the natural 
and moral worlds, there mnsrt be a retributive 
scene of existence beyond the grave; must, I 
think, be allowed by every one who will give 
himself a moment's reflection. I will go farther, 
and affirm, that from the sublimity, excellence, 
and purity of his doctrine and precepts, un- 
paralleled by all the aggregated wisdom and 
learning of many preceding ages, though, to 
appearance, he himself was the obscurest and 
most illiterate of our species; therefore Jesus 
Christ was from God. 

Whatever mitigates the woes, or increases 
the happiness, of others, this is my criterion of 
goodness: and whatever injures society at 
large or any individual in it, this is my measure 
of iniquity. 

What think you. madam, of my creed ? I trust 
that I have said nothing that will lessen me in 
the eye of one w'a ;se good opinion I value 
almost next to the approbation of my own 
mind. 



NO. T.XHI. 

PROM MR. . 

London zth, August, 1789. 
Mt Dear Sre,— 
Excuse me when I say, that the uncommon 
abilities which yon possess mnst render your 
correspondence very acceptable to any one. I 
can assure yon. I am particularly proud of your 
partiality, and shall endeavour, by every method 
in my power, to merit a continuance of your 
politeness. 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



When you can spare a few moments. T should 
be proud of a letter from you, directed for me, 
Gerrard Street, Solio. 

I cannot express my happiness sufficiently at 
the instance of your attachment to my late in- 
estimable friend" Bob Fergusson,- who was par- 
ticularly intimate with myself and relations.* 
While I recollect with pleasure his extraordinary 
talents, and many amiable qualities, it affords 
the greatest consolation that I am honoured 
with the correspondence of his successor in 
national simplicity and genius. That Mr. Burns 
has refined, in the art of poetry, must be readily 
admitted; but notwithstanding many favour- 
able representations, I am yet to learn that he 
inherits his convivial powers. 

There was such a richness of conversation, 
such a plenitude of fancy and attraction in him, 
that when I call the happy period of our inter- 
course to my memory, I feel myself in a state of 
delirium. I was then younger than him by 
eight or ten years ; but his manner was so feli- 
citous that he enraptured every person around 
him. and infused into the young and the old the 
spirit and animation which operated on his own 
mind. 

I am, dear sir, yours, &c. 



NO. LXIV 

TO MR. 



IN ANSWER TO THE FOREGOING. 

Mr Dear Sir,— 

The hurry of a farmer in this particular season, 
and the indolence of a poet at all times and 
seasons, will, I hope, plead my excuse for neg- 
lecting so long to answer vour obliging letter of 
the fifth of August. 

That you have done well in quitting your 

laborioiis concerri'in I do not doubt ; 

the weighty reasons you mention were, I hope, 
very, and deservedly indeed, weighty ones, 
and your health is a matter of the last import- 
tance: hut whether the remaining proprietors 
of the paper have also done well, is what I much 
doubt. The . . . ., so far as I was a reader, 
exhibited such a brilliancy of point, such a 
degree of elegance of paragraph, and such a 
variety of intelligence, that I can hardly con- 
ceive it possible to continue a daily paper in the 
same degree of excellence : but if there were a 
man equal to the task, that man's assistance the 
proprietors have lost. 



! and schemes are concentrated in an aim 



When I received your letter, I was transcribing 
for .... my letter to the magistrates of the 
Cannongate, Edinburgh, begging their per- 
mission to place a tombstone over poor Fer- 
gusson, and their edict in consequence of my 
petition , but new I shall send them to ... . 
Poor Fergusson ! If there be a life beyond the 
grave, which I trust there is. and if there be a 
good God presiding over all nature, which I am 
sure there is: thou art now enjoying existence 
in a glorious world, where worth of the heart 
alone is the distinction in the man; where 
riches, deprived of all their pleasure-seeking 
powers, return to their sordid matter : where 
titles and honours are the disregarded reveries 
of an idle dream; and where that heavy virtue, 
which is the negative consequence of steadj T 
dnlness, and thoughtless, though often de- 
structive, follies, which are the unavoidable 
aberrations of frail human nature, will be 
thrown into equal oblivion as if they had never 
been! 

Adien, my dear sir ! so soon as yenr present 



I shall be glad to hear 
and happiness is by 
different to 



•om you, as your welh 
o means a subject 
Yours, £c 



t The erection of a nioiuunent to him. 



NO. LXV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Elhsland, 6'Ji September, 1789. 
Dear Madam,— 

I have mentioned in my last my appointment 
to the excise, and the birth of little Frank: who, 
by the bye, I trust will be no disgrace to the 
honourable name of Wallace, as he has a fine 
manly countenance, and a figure that might do 
credit to a little fellow two months older: and 
likewise an excellent good temper, though when 
he pleases he has a pipe, only not quite so loud 
as the horn which his immortal namesake blew 
as a signal to take out the pin of Stirling 
bridge. 

I had some time ago an epistle, part poetic, 
and part prosaic, from your poetess, Mrs. J. 
L : a very ingenious, but modest com- 
position. I should have written her as she 
requested, but for the hurry of this new busi- 
ness. I have heard of her and her compositions 
in this country : and I am happy to add, always 
to the honour of her character. The fact is, I 
know not well how to write to her ; I should sit 
down to a sheet of paper that I knew not how to 
stain. I am no daub at fine-drawn letter- 
writing; and except when prompted by friend- 
ship or gratitude, or. which happens extremely 
rarely, inspired by the Muse (I know not her 
name*) that presides over epistolary writing. I 
sit down, when necessitated to write, as I would 
sit down to beat hemp. 

Some parts of your letter of the 20th August 
struck me with melancholy concern for the 
state of your mind at present. 

Would I could write yon a letter of comfort, I 
would sit down to it with as much pleasure as I 
would to write an epic poem of my own compo- 
sition that should equal the "Iliad." Religion, 
my dear friend, is the true comfort ! A strong 
persuasion in a future state of existence; a pro- 
position so obviously probable, that, setting 
revelation aside, every nation and people, so far 
as investi^ati'in has reached, for at least near 
four thousand years, have in some mode or 
other firmly believed it. In vain would we 
reason and pretend to doubt. I have myself 
clone so to a very daring pitch ; but when I re- 
flected that I was opposing the most ardent 
wishes, and the most darling hopes of good men, 
and flying in the face of all human belief, in all 
ages, I was shocked at mv own conduct. 

I know whether I have ever sent you the 
following lines, or if you have ever seen them; 
but it is one of my favourite quotations, which 
I keep constantly by me in my progress through 
life, in the language of the book of Job, 

'Against the day of battle and of war.'— 

spoken of religion. 

''Tis this, my friend, that streaks our morning 
bright, 

'Tis this that gilds the horror of our night, 

When wealth forsakes us, and when friends are 
few ; 

When friends are faithless, or when foes pur- 
sue ; 

'Tis this that wards the blow, or stills the 
smart, 

Disarms affliction or repels his dart; 

Wkhin the breast bids purest raptures rise, 

Bids smHinu' conscience spread her cloudless 
skies.' 

I have been very busy with "Zeroco." Th§ 



158 BURNS' TOE 

Doctor is so obliging as to request my opinion of 
it : and 1 have been revolving in ray mind sumo 
kind of criticisms on novel writing, but it is a 
depth beyond my research. 1 shall however 
digest my thoughts on the subject as well as I 
can. "Zeluco" is a most sterling performance. 
Farewell! A Dieu, le bon Dieu, je vous com 
mende! 

NO. LXVI. 

TO R. GRAHAM, ESQ. OF FINTRY 
9th December, 17 

Sir.— 

1 have a good while had a wish to trouble you 
with a letter, and had certainly done it long ere 
now, but for a humiliating something that 
throws cold water on the resolution, as if one 
should say, " You have found Mr Graham a 
very kind and powerful friend indeed, and that 
interest lie is so kindly taking- in your concerns, 
you ought by everything in your power to keep 
alive and cherish." Now though, since God as 
thought proper to make one powerful and 
another helpless, the connexion of obliger and 
obliged is all fair; and though my being under 
your patronage is to me highly honourable, yet, 
.sir, allow me to flatter myself that, as a poet 
and an honest man, you first interested vourself 
in my welfare, and principally as such still, you 
permit me to approach you. 

I have found the exci'se business go on a great 
deal smoother with me than I expected; owing 
a good deal to the generous friendship of Mr. 
Mitchell, my collector, and the kind assistance <.f 
Mr. Findlntor, mv supervisor. I dare to be 
honest, and I fear no labour. Nor do I find mv 
hurried life greatly inimical to iuv correspon- 
dence with the Muses. Their visits to me, in- 
deed, and I believe to must of their acquaint- 
ance, like the visits of good angels, are short 
and far between: but I meet them now and then 
as I jog through the hills of Nithsdalc, just as I 
used to do on the banks of Ayr. I take the 
liberty to enclose you a few bagatelles, all of 



If you know or have ever seen Captain Grose, 
the antiquarian, you will enter into any humour 
that is in the verses on him. l'crhaps'you have 
seen them before, as I sent them to a London 
newspaper. Though I dare Bay yon have none 
of the solemn-league-and-covenant fire which 
shone so conspicuous in Lord George Cordon and 
the Kilmarnock weavers, vet I think vou must 
have heard of Dr. M-Cill. one of the clergymen of 
Ayr, and his heretical book, Cod help him, poor 
man ! Though lie is one of the worthiest, as well 
asoneof the ablest, of the whole priesthood of the 
Kirk of Scotland, in every sense of that ambiguous 
term, yet the poor Doctor and his numerous 
family are in imminent danger of being thrown 
out to the mercy of the winter-winds. The en- 
closed ballad on" that business is, I confess, too 
local ; but I laughed myself at some conceits in 
it, though I am convinced, in my conscience, 
that there are a good manv heavy stanzas in it 
too. 

The election ballad, as you will see. alludes to 
the present canvass in our string of boroughs. I 
do not believe there will be such a hard-run 
match in the whole general election. 



I am too little a man to have any political 
attachments ; I am deeply indebted to. and have 
the warmest veneration for. individuals of both 
parties; but a man who has it in his power to be 
the father of a country, and who- — is a cha- 
racter that one cannot speak of with patience. 

Sir J. J. does "what can man do," but yet I 
doubt his fate. 



TICAL WORKS. $9$ 

NO. LXVII. 
TO MRS. DLNLOP 

Ellisland, I3(h of December. 
Mant thanks, dear madam, for your sheetful of 
rhymes. Though at present I am below the 
veriest prose, yet from you everything pleases. 
I am groaning under the miseries of a deceased 
nervous system ; a system, the state of which is 
most conducive to our happiness— or the most 
productive of our misery. For now near three 
weeks 1 have been so ill with a nervous head- 
ache, that I have been obliged to give up, for a 
time, ray excise-books, being scarce able to lift 
my head, much less to ride once a-weck over 
ten muir parishes. AVhat is Man ! To-dav, in the 
luxuriance of health, exulting in the enjoyment 
of existence; in a few days, perhaps in a few 
hours, loaded with conscious, painful being- 
counting the tardy pace of the lingering mo- 
ments by the repercussions of anguish, and re- 
fusing or denied a comforter. Day follows 
night, and night conies after day, only to curse 
him with life which gives him no pleasure; and 
yet the awful, dark termination of that life is a 
something at which he recoils. 

'Tell us, ye dead ; will none of you in pity 

Disclose the secret 

AVhat 'tis you are, and we must shortly be ! 

'tis no matter; 

A little time will make us learn'd as you are.' 

Can it be possible, that when I resign this 
frail feverish being, I shall still find myself in 
conscious existence! When the last gasp of 
agony has announced that 1 am no more to 
those that knew me, and the few that loved me : 
when the cold, stiffened, unconscious, ghastly 
corse is resigned into the earth, to be the prey 
of unsightly reptiles, and to become in time a 
trodden clod, shall I yet be warm in life, seeing 
and seen, enjoying and enjoyed? Ye venerable 
sage-, and holy flaiiiens. is there probability in 
your conjectures, truth in your stories of another 
world beyond death: or are they all alike, base- 
less visions, and fabricated fables'/ If there is 
another lite, it must be only for the just, the 
benevolent, the amiable, and the humane ; what 
a flattering idea, then, is the world to come? 
Would to God I as firmly believed it, as I 
ardently wish it ! There I should meet an aged 
parent, now at rest from the many buffetings of 
an evil world, against which he so long and so 
bravely struggled. There should I meet the 
friend, the disinterested friend of my early life; 
the man who rejoiced to see me, because he 

loved me and could serve me. Muir! thy 

weaknesses were the aberrations of human 
nature, but thy heart glowed with everything 
generous, manlv and noble ; and if ever emana- 
tion from the All-good Being animated a human 
form, it was thine!— There should I, with speech- 
less agony of rapture, again recognise my lost, 
my ever dear Mary ! whose bosom was fraught 
with truth, honour, constancy, and love. 

My Mary, dear departed shade ! 

Where is thy place of heavenly rest ? 
Seest thou thy lover lowly laid? 

Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast? 

Jesus Christ, thou amiablest of characters, I 
trust thou art no impostor, and that thy revela- 
tion of blissful scenes of existence beyond death 
and the grave is one of the many impositions 
which time after time have been palmed on cre- 
dulous mankind. I trust that in thee, " Shall all 
the families of the earth be blessed,'' by being 
yet connected together in a better world, where 
every tie that bound heart to heart, in this state 
of existence, shall be, far beyond our present 
conception, more endearinp. 

I arn a good deal inclined to think Tvith those. 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS 



159 



who maintain that what arc called nervous af- 
fections are, in fact, diseases of the mind. I can- 
not reason, 1 cannot think, and but to you I 
would not venture to write anything above an 
order to a cobbler. You have felt too much the 
ills of life not to sympathize with a diseased 
wretch who is impared more than half of any 
faculties he possessed. Your goodness will ex- 
cuse this distracted scrawl. which the writer dare 
scarcely read, and which he would throw into 
the tire, were he able to write anything better. 
or indeed anvthing at all. 

Rumour told me something of a son of yours 
who was returned from the East or the West 
Indies. If you have gotten news of James and 
Anthony, it was cruel in you not tolet me know; 
as I promised you, on the sincerity of a man, 
who is weary of one world and anxious about 
another, that scarce anvthing could give me so 
much pleasure as to hear of any good befalling 
my honoured friend. 

If you have a minute's leisure, take up your 
pen in pity to le pauvre miserable. 



TO SIR JOHN SINCLAIR. 

SlH,— 

The following circumstance has, I believe, been 
omitted in the statistical account, transmitted to 
you, of the parish of Dunscore, in Nithdale. I 
beg leave to send it to you, because it is new and 
may be useful. How far it may be deserving of 
a place in your patriotic publication, you arc the 
best judge. 

To store the minds of the lower classes with 
useful knowledge is certainly of very great im- 
portance, both to them as individuals and to 
society at large. Giving them a turn for reading 
and reflection, is giving them a source of inno- 
cent and laudable amusement ; and besides, 
raises them to a more dignified degree in the 
scale of nationality. Impressed with this idea, 
a gentleman in this parish, Robert Riddel, Esq., 
of Glenriddel, set on foot a species of circulating 
library, on a plan so simple as to be practicable 
in any corner of the country; and so useful, as 
to deserve the notice of every country gentle- 
man who thinks the improvement of that part of 
his own species, whom chance has thrown into 
the humble walks of the peasant and the artisan, 
a matter worthy his attention. 

Mr. Riddel got a number of his tenants, and 
farming neighbours, to form themselves into a 
society for the purpose of having a library among 
themselves. They entered into a legal engage- 
ment to abide by it for three years; with a 
saving clause or two, in case of removal to a dis- 
tance, or death. Each member, at his entry, paid 
five shillings, and at each of their meetings. 
which were held every fourth Saturday, sixpence 
more. With their etiti'v-nxmev, and the credit 
they took on the faith of their future funds, they 
laid in a tolerable stock of books at the com- 
mencement. What authors they were to pur- 
chase, was always decided by the majority. At 
every meeting, all the books,' under certain fines 
and forfeitures, by way of penalty, were to be 
produced: and the members had their choice of 
their volumes in rotation. He whose name 
stood, for that night, first on the list, had his 
choice of what volume he pleased in the whole 
collection; the second had his choice after the 
first; the third after the second, and so on to 
the last. At next meeting, he who had been first 
on the list at the preceding meeting, was last 
at this ; he who had been second was first : and 
so on through the whole three years. At the 
expiration of the engagement, the books were 
sold by auction, but onlv among the members 
themselves: and each man had his share of the 



common stock, in money or in books, as he 
chose to be a purchaser or not. 

At the breaking-up of this little society, which 
was formed under Mr. Ridders patronage, what 
with benefactions of books from him, and what 
with their own purchases, they had collected toge- 
ther upwards of one hundred and fifty volumes. 
It will be easily guessed that a good deal of trash 
would be bought. Among the books, however, 
of this little library, were " Blair's Sermons," 
'•Robertson's History of Scotland," "Hume's 
History of the Stuarts." the '• Spectator," 
"Idler," "Adventurer." "Mirror," "Lounger." 
"Observer." "Man of Feeling," "Man of the 
World," "Chrysal," "Don Quixote," "Joseph 
Andrews." <kc. A peasant who can read, and 
enjoy such books, is certainly a much superior 
being to his neighbour, who perhaps stalks be- 
side his team, very little removed, except in 
shape, from the brute he drives. 

Wishing your patriotic exertions their so much- 
merited success, 

I am, sir, 

Your humble servant, 

A. Peasant. 



KO. LXIX. 
TO MRS HUN LOP. 

Ellisland, 25th January, 1780. 
It has been owing to unremitting hurry of 
business that I have not written to you. madam, 
long ere now. My health is greatly better, and 
I now begin once more to share in satisfaction 
and enjoyment with the rest of my fellow- 
creatures. 

Many thanks, my much esteemed friend, for 
your kind letters ; but why will you make me 
run the risk of being contemptible and merce- 
nary in my own eyes ! When I pique myself on 
my independent spirit. I hope it is neither poetic 
licence, nor poetic rant ; and I am so flattered 
with the honour you have done me. in making 
me your compeer in friendship and friendly 
correspondence, that I cannot without pain, and 
a degree of mortification, be reminded of the 
real inequality between our situations. 

Mos't sincerely do I rejoice with you, dear 
madam, in the good news of Anthony. Not only 
your anxiety about his fate, but my own esteem 
for such a noble, warm-hearted, manly young 
fellow, in the little 1 had of his acquaintance, 
has interested me deeply in his fortunes. 

Falconer, the unfortunate author of the 
"Shipwreck," which you so much admire, is no 
more. After weathering the dreadful catas- 
trophe he so feelingly describes in his poem, and 
after weathering many hard gales of fortune, he 
went to the bottom with the Aurora frigate ! I 
forget what part of Scotland had the honour of 
giving him birth, but hewas the son of obscurity 
and misfortune. He was one of those daring, 
adventurous spirits which Scotland, beyond any 
other country, is remarkable for producing. 
Little does the fond mother think, as she hangs 
delighted over the sweet little leech at her bosom, 
where the poor fellow may hereafter wander, 
and what may be his fate. I remember a stanza 
in an old Scottish ballad, which, notwithstand- 
ing its rude simplicity, speaks feelingly to the 
heart : — 

" Little did my mother think, 

That day she cradled me. 
What land I was to travel in, 
Or what death I should die " 

Old Scottish songs are, you know, a favourite 
study and pursuit of mine ; and now I am on 
that subject, allow me to give you two stanzas 
of another old simple ballad, which I am sure 
will please you. The catastrophe of the piece is 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



a poor mined female, lamenting her fate. She 
concludes with this pathetic wish J— 

" O that my father had ne'er on me smiled ; 

that my mother had ne"er to me sung ! 
O that my cradle had never been rock'd ; 

But that I had died when 1 was young! 

O that the grave it were my bed ; 
Mv blankets were my winding-sheet; 

The clocks and the worms my bedfellows a'; 
And O sae sound as I should sleep !" 

1 do not remember in all my reading to have 
met with anything more truly the language of 
misery, than the exclamation in the last line. 
Misery is like love; to speak its language truly, 
the author must have felt it. 

I am every day expecting the doctor to give 
your little godson the small-pox. Thev are rife 
in the country, and I tremble for his fate. By 
the way, I cannot help congratulating you on 
his looks and spirit Every person who sees 
him acknowledges him to be the finest, hand- 
somest child he has ever seen. I am mvself de- 
lighted with the manly swell of his little chest, 
and a certain miniature dignity in the carriage 
of his head, and glance of his fine black eye, 
which promise the undaunted gallantry of an 
independent mind. 

I thought to have sent you some rhymes, but 
time forbids. 1 promise vou poetrv "until von 
are tired of it, next time i have the honour of 
assuring you how truly I am, Sac. 



from MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

28th January, 1790. 

In some instances, it is reckoned unpardonable 
to quote any oin's own words ; but the value I 
have for your friendship, nothing can more 
truly or more elegant! v 

'•Time but the impn • akes, 

As streams their channels deeper wear." 

Having written to you twice without having 
heard from you. I am apt t>> think my letters 
have miscarried. My conjecture is only framed 
upon the chapter of accidents turning up against 
me, as it too often does, in the trivial, and I 
may with truth add. the more important affairs 
of life ; but 1 shall continue occasionally to in- 
form vou what is going on among the circle of 
your friends in these parts. In these (fays of 
merriment, I have frequently heard yonr name 
proclaimed at the jovial board— under the "roof 
of our hospitable friend at Stenhouse Mills, 
there were no 

" Lingering moments number" d with care." 

I saw your "Address to the New Year" in the 
Dumfries Journal. Of your productions,! shall 
say nothing; but my acquaintances allege that 
when your name is mentioned, which every man 
of celc'brity must know often happens, I am the 
champion— the Mendoza— against all snarling 
critics and narrow-minded reptiles, of whom a 
few on this planet do crawl. 

With best compliment- to your wife, and her 
black-eyed -i-.ter. I remain, yours. &c. 

XO LXXJ. 

TO 31 R. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, \Zth February. l72o. 
I beg yonr pardon, my dear and much valued, 
for writing to yon on this very unfashionable, 
unsightly sheet— 

"My poverty, but not my will, consents." 

But to make amends, since of modish post I 

have none, except one poor widowed half sheet 



of gilt, which lies in my drawer among my ple- 
beian foolscap pages, like the widow of a man of 
fashion, whom that impolite scoundrel, Neces- 
sity, has driven from Burgundy and Pine- 
apple, to a dish of Bohea, with the scandal- 
bearing helpmate of a village priest ; or a glass 
of whisky-toddy, with the ruby-nosed yoke- 
fellow of a foot-padding exciseman— I make a 
vow to enclose this sheet full of epistolary frag- 
ments in that my only scrap of gilt-paper." 

lam indeed your unworthy debtor for three 
friendly letters. I ought to have written to you 
long ere now ; but it is a literal fact, I have 
scarcely a spare moment. It is not that I will 
not write to you : Miss Burnet is not more dear 
to her guardian angel, nor his Grace the Duke 

of to the powers of . than my friend Cun- 

ninghain to me. It is not that I cannot write to 
you ; should you doubt it, take the following 
fragment, which was intended for you some 
time ago, and be convinced that I can anliilic- 
size sentiment, and circumvolute periods, as well 
as any coiner of phrase in the regions of phi- 
lology. 

December, 1780. 
My Dear Cunningham,— 

Where are you':' And what are you doing ? 
Can you be that son of levity, who tak 
friendship as he takes up a "fashion? Or are 
you. like some other of the worthiest fellows in 
the world, the victim of indolence, laden with 
fetters of ever-increasing weight ? 

What strange beingc we are ! Since we have 
a portion of conscious existence, equally capable 
of enjoying pleasure, happiness, and rapture, or 
of suffering pain, wretchedness, and misery, it 
is surely worthy of an inquiry, whether there 
be not such a tiling as a science of life; whether 
method, economy, and fertility of expedients be 
not applicable to enjoyment; and whether there 
be not a want of dexterity in pleasure, which 
■w little scantling of happiness still 
mi intoxication in bliss 
which leads to satiety, disgust, and self-abhor- 
rence. There is not a doubt but that health, 
talents, character, decent competency, respect- 
able friends, are real substantial blessings; and 
yet do we not daily see those who enjoy many 
or all of these good things, contrive, notwith- 
standing, to lie as unhappy as others to whose 
lot few of them have fallen. I believe one great 
source of this mistake or misconduct is owing 
to a certain stimulus, with us called ambition, 
which goads us up the hill of life, not as we as- 
cend other eminences, for the laudable curio- 
sity of viewing an extended landscape, but 
rather for the dishonest pride of looking down 
on others of our fellow-creatures, seemingly 
diminutive, in humble stations, <Jcc, Jfcc. 



Sunday, \Uh February, 

God help me ! I am now obliged to join 

' Night to day, and Sunday to the week. 
If there be any truth in the orthodox faith of 

these churches, 1 am past redemption, and 

what is worse. to all eternity, I am deeply 

read in Boston's " Fourfold State," Marshall oh 
"Sanctifieation." Guthrie's "Trial of a Saving 
Interest," &c. : but "There is no balm in Gilead, 
there is no physician there," for me; so I shall 
e'en turn Arminian, and trust to "Sincere, 
though imperfect, obedience." 

Tuesday, Wh. 
Luckily for me I was prevented from the dis- 
cussion of the knotty point at which I had jnst 
made a full stop. All my fears and cares are of 
this world: if there is another, an honest man 
has nothing to fear from it. I hate a man that 
wishes to be a Deist ; but I fear every fair, mi. 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 

prejudiced inquirer must in some degree be a i for one thing. Mankind are by nature bene 



161 



sceptic. It is not that ther 
gering arguments against the immortality ox 
man; but like electricity, phlogiston, etc.. the 
subject is so involved in darkness, that we 'want 
data to go upon. One thing frightens me much ; 
that we are to live for ever, seems too good news 
to be true. That we are to enter into a new 
scene of existence, where, exempt from want 
and pain, we shall enjoy ourselves and our 
friends without satiety or separation— how much 
should I be indebted to any one who could fully 
assure me that this was certain! 

My time is once more expired. I will write to 
to Mr. Cleghorn soon. God bless him and all 
his concerns ! And may all the powers that pre- 
side over conviviality and friendship be present, 
with all their kindest influence, when the bearer 
of this, Mr. Syme, and you meet ! I wish I could 
also make one.— I think we should be. . . . 

Finally, brethren, farewell! Whatsoever 
things a're lovely, whatsoever things are gentle, 
whatsoever things are charitable, whatsoever 
things are kind, think on these things, and 
think on 

Robert Burns. 

no. LXXII. 
TO MR. HILL. 

Ellisland, 2m{March, 1790. 
At a late meeting of the Monkland Friendly 
Society, it was resolved to augment their 
library by the following books, which you are to 
.send us as soon as possible:— " The Mirror;" 
"The Lounger;" "Man of Feeling,'" "Man of 
the World (these for my own sake I wish to 
have by the first carrier);'' " Knox's History of 
the Reformation;" "Rae's History of the Re- 
bellion in 1715;" any good "History of the Re- 
bellion in 1 745 :" "A Display of the Session Act 
and Testimony," bvMr.Gibb: "Hervey's Medi- 
tations;" "Bcverida-e's Thoughts;" and another 
copy of " Watson's Body of Divinity." 

1 wrote to Mr. A. Masterton three or four 
months ago, to pay some money he owed me 
into your hands, and lately 1 wrote to yon to 
the same purpose, but I have heard from neither 
one nor other of you. 

In addition to the books I commissioned in my 
last, I want very much. "An Index to the Ex- 
cise Laws, or an abridgement of all the Statutes 
now in force, relative to the Excise," by Jellin- 
gerSymons: I want three copies of this book; 
if it is now to be had, cheap or dear, get it for 
me. An honest country neighbour of mine 
wants, too, "A Family Bible," the larger the 
better, but second-handed, for he does not choose 
to give above ten shillings for the book. I want 
likewise for myself, as you can pick them up, 
second-handed or cheap, copies of " Ottway's 
Dramatic Works," Ben Jonson's," "Dryden's," 
" Congreve's," " Wycherley's," " Vanbrugh's." 
"Gibber's," or any "Dramatic Works" of the 
more modern— "Macklin," "Garrick," "Foote," 
" Cohnan," or " Sheridan." A good copy too of 
"Moliere," in French, I much want. Any other 
good dramatic authors in that language I want 
also ; but comic authors, chiefly, though I should 
wish to have "Racine," " Corneille." and " Vol- 
taire, too. I am in no hurry for all. or any of 
these ; but if you accidentally meet with them 
very cheap, get them for me. 

And now, to quit the dry walk of business, how 
do you do, my dear friend V and how is Mrs. 
HillV I trust if now and then not so elegantlv 
handsome, at least as amiable, and sines as 
divinely as ever. My good wife too has acharm- 
Ing " wood-note wild ;" now could we four 

I am out of ail patience with this vile world,' 



lent creatures; except in a few scoundrelly in- 
stances, I do not think that avarice of the good 
things we chance to have is born with us ; but 
we are placed here amid so much nakedness, 
and hunger, and poverty, and want, that we are 
under a cursed necessity of studving selfishness, 
in order that we may exist! Still there are, in 
every age, a few souls, that all the wants and 
woes of life cannot debase to selfishness, or even 
to the necessary alloy of caution and prudence. 
If ever 1 am in danger of vanity, it is when I 
contemplate myself on this side of my disposi- 
tion and character. God knows. I am no saint ; 
1 have a whole host of follies and sins to answer 
for; but if I could, and I believe I do it as far as 
I can, I would wipe away all tears from all eyes. 
Adieu ! 



NO. LXXIII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, 10th April, 1790. 
I have just now, my ever-honoured friend, em 
joyed a very high luxury, in reading a paper of 
the "Lounger." Yon know my national pre- 
judices. I had often read and admired the 
"Spectator," "Adventurer." "Rambler," and 
"World;" but still with a certain regret that 
they were so thoroughly and entirelv English. 
Alas! have I often said to myself, "what are 
all the boasted advantages which my country 
reaps from the Union that can counterbalance 
the annihilation of her independence, and even 
her very name! I often repeat that couplet of 
my favourite poet, Goldsmith— 

" States of native liberty possest, 

Though very poor, may yet bevcry blest,' ' 

Nothing can reconcile me to the common 
terms, "English ambassador, English court." 
<fec. And I am out of all patience to see that 
equivocal character, Hastings, impeached by 
"the Commons of England." Tell me, my 
friend, is this weak prejudice ? I believe in my 
conscience such ideas, as my "country; her in- 
dependence ; her honour; the illustrious names 
that mark the history of my native land," etc. 
—I believe these, among your men of the world- 
men who in fact guide for the most part and 
govern our world, are looked on as so many 
modifications of Avrongheadedness. They know 
the use of bawling out such terms, to rouse or 
lead the rabble ; but for their own private use, 
with almost all the able statesmen that ever ex- 
isted, or now exist, when they talk of right or 
Avrong, thej- only mean proper or improper ; and 
their measure of conduct is, not what they ought, 
but what they dare. For the truth of this I shall 
not ransack the history of nations, but appeal to 
one of the ablest judges of men, and himself one 
of the ablest men that ever lived— the celebrated 
Earl of Chesterfield. In fact, a man who could 
thoroughly control his vices whenever they in- 
terfered with his interest, and who could com- 
pletely put on an appearance of every virtue as 
often as it suited his purpose, is on the Stanho- 
pian plan, the perfect man— a. man to lead na- 
tions. But are great abilities, complete without 
a flaw r , and polished without a blemish, the stan- 
dard of human excellence ? This is certainly the 
staunch opinion of, man of the world; but 1 call 
on honour, virtue, and woVth to give the Stygian 
doctrine a loud negative ! However, this must 
be allowed, that if you abstract from man the 
idea of an existence beyond the grave, then the 
true measure of human conduct is propter and 
improper. Virtue and vice, as dispositions ol 
the heart, are in that case of scarcely the im- 
port and value to the world at large as har- 
mony and discord in the modifications of sound ; 
and a delicate sense of honour, like a nice ear 



1&2 



burns* Poetical works. 



for music, though it may sometimes give the 
possessor an ecstacy unknown to the coarser 
organs of the herd, yet. considering the harsh 
gratings, and inharmonic jars in this ill-tuned 
state of being, it is odds but the individual 
■would be as happy, and certainly would be as 
much respected by the true judges of society, as 
it would then stand, without either a good ear or 
a good heart. 

You must know 1 have just met with the 
"Mirror" and "Lounger" for the first time, 
and i am quite in raptures with them : I should 
be glad to have your opinion of some of the 
papers. The one 1 have just read, "Lounger,'' 
No. 61, has cost me more honest tears than any- 
thing I have read of a long time. Mr. M'Kenzic 
lias been called the Addison of the Scots: and, in 
my opinion, Addison would not be hurt at the 
comparison. Jf he has not Addison's exquisite 
humour, he certainly outdoes him in the tender 
and pathetic. His "Man of Feeling" (but I am 
not counsel learned in the laws of criticism) [ 
estimate as the first performance in its kind I 
ever saw. From what books, moral or even 
pious, will the susceptible young mind receive 
impressions more, congenia'l to humanity and 
kindness, generosity and benevolence, in short, 
more of all that ennobles the soul to herscif, or 
endears her to others, than from the simple 
and affecting tale of poor Hurley. 

Still, with all mv admiration of M'Kcnzie's 
writings, 1 do not know if they are the fittest 
reading for a young man who is about to set out. 
as the phrase is. to make his way into life. ])o 
not you think, madam, that among the few fa- 
voured of Heaven in the structure of their minds 
(for such there certainly are) there may be a 
purity, a tenderness, a dignity, an elegance of 
soul, "which are of no use — nay, in some degree, 
absolutely disqualifying- for the truly important 
business of making a man's way in life, if I am 
not much mistaken, my gallant young friend 
A is very much under these disqualifica- 
tions; andforthc young females of a family I 
could mention, well may they excite parental 
solicitude— for I, a common acquaintance, or ;is 
my vanity will have it, an humble friend, have 
often trembled for a turn of mind which may 
render them eminently happy— or peculiarly 
miserable! 

1 have been manufacturing some verses lately : 
but as I have got the most hurried season of 
excise business over. I hope to have more leisure 
to transcribe anvthingthat may show how much 
1 have the honour to be, madam, yours, cVic. 



NO. LXXIV. 
TO DR. MOORE. 
Dumfries, Excise Office, Uth July, 1790. 
Sim- 
Coming into town this morning, to attend my 
dutv in this office, it being collection-day. I met 
with a gentleman who tells me he is on his way 
to London : so I take the opportunity of writing 
to you. as franking is at present under a tem- 
porary death. I shall have some snatches of 
leisure through the day, amid our horrid busi- 
ness and bustle, and I shall improve them as 
well as I can; but let my letter be as stupid as 

as miscellaneous as a newspaper, 

as a hungry grace-before-meat, or as long as a 
law-paper in the Douglas' cause; as ill-spelt as 
countrv John's billet-doux, or as unsightly a 
scrawl* as Betty Byremucker's answer to it. 1 
hope, considering circumstances, yon will for- 
give it; and as it will put von to no expense, of 
postage. I shall have the less reflection about it. 
I am sadly ungrateful in not returning you my 
thanks for your most valuable present, "Zeluco." 
In fact, you are in some degree blamable for my 
neglect." You were pleased to express a wish 



for my opinion of the work, which so llatterec 
me, that nothing less would serve my over 
weening fancy than a formal criticism on the 
book. In fact, I have gravely planned a com- 
parative view of you. Fielding, Richardson, and 
Smollett, in your different qualities and merits 
as novel-writers. This, I own, betrays my ridi- 
culous vanity, and I may probably never bring 
the business to bear : but J am fond of the spirit 
young Elihu shows in the book of Job— "And I 
said. I will also declare my opinion." I have 
quite disfigured my copy of the book with my 
annotation. I never take it up without at the 
same time taking mv pencil, and marking with 
asterisks, parenthesis, &c, wherever I meet 
with an original thought, a nervous remark on 
life and manners, a remarkably well-turned 
period, or a character sketched with uncommon 
precision. 

Though 1 hardly think of fairly wrting out my 
" Comparative View." I shall certainly trouble 
you with my remarks, such as they are. I have 
just received from mv gentleman that horrid 
summons in the book" of Revelations— " That 
time shall be no more !" 

The little collection of sonnets have some 
charming poetry in them. If. indeed, 1 am in- 
debted to the fair author for the book, and not, 
as I rather suspect, to a celebrated author of 
the other sex. I should certainly have written 
to the lady, with my grateful acknowledgments, 
and mv own ideas of the comparative excellence 
of her pieces. 1 would do this last, not from any 
vanity of thinking that my remarks could be of 
much consequence to Mrs. Smith, but merely 
from my own feelings as an author, doing as 1 
would be done by 



no. j.x.xv. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

8th of August, 1790. 
Dear Madam,— 

After a long day's toil, plague, and care, 1 sit 
down to write to you. Ask me not why 1 have de- 
layed it so long? ft was owing to hurry, indolence, 
and fiftv other things; in short, to anything; 
but forgetfulness of la plus amiable de son sexe. 
By the bye. you are indebted your best courtesy 
to me for" thi's last compliment ; as f pay it from 
sincere conviction of its truth— a quality rather 
rare in compliments of these grinning, bowing, 
scraping times. 

Well. I hope writing to vou will ease a little 
my troubled soul. Sorely has it been bruised to- 
dav! A ci-devant friend ot mine, and an inti- 
mate acquaintance of yours, has given my feel- 
ings a wound that l" perceive will gangrene 
dangerously ere it cure. He has wounded ray 
pride ! 



NO. LXXVI. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Ellisland, 8th August, 1790. 
Forgive me at once dear, and ever-dear friend, 
my seeming negligence. You cannot sit down, 
and fancy the busv life I lead. 

I laid down my goose-feather to beat mv brains 
for an apt simile, and had some thoughts of a 
countrv grannam at a family christening: a 
bride on the market-day before her marriage ; 

a tavern-keeper at an election-dinner, &c, Ac- 
hut the resemblance that hits my fancy best is, 
that blackguard miscreant, Satan, who roams 
about like'a roaring lion, seeking, searching 
whom he may devour. However, tossed about 
as I am. if I choose (and who would not choose; 
to bind down with the crampets of attention the 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 

brazen foundation of integrity, I may rear np 
the superstructure of independence, and from 

,-.-.. /l.,,.i.,,, fnvrntc hi.l A f tf -1 11 r>0 til t ll O Cltfirill fff 



163 



its daring turrets bid defiance to the storm erf 
fate. And is not this a " consummation devoutly 
to be wished? - ' 
" Thy spirit, Independence, let me share ; 

Lord of the lion-heart, and eagle-eye I 
Thy steps 1 follow with my bosom bare. 

Nor heed the storm that howls along the 
sky 1" 

Are not these noble verses ? They are the in- 
troduction of " Smollet's Ode to Independence." 
If you have not seen the poem, 1 will send it to 
yon. How wretched is the man that hangs on 
by the favours of the great. To shrink from 
every dignity of man, at the approach of a 
lordly piece o*f self-consequence, who, amid all 
his tinsel glitter, and stately hauteur, is but a 
creature formed as thou art— and perhaps not 
so well formed as thou art— came into the world 
a puling infant as thou didst, and must all go 
out of it as all men must, a naked corse.* 



no. Lxvir. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

November. 1700. 
"As cold waters to a thirsty soul, so is good 
news from a far country." 

Fate has long owed me a letter of good news 
from yon, in return for the many tidings of 
sorrow I have received. In this instance I most 
cordially obey the apostle—" Rejoice with them 
that do rejoice"— for me to sing for joy is no 
new thing; but to preach for joy, as 1 have done 
in the commencement of this epistle, is a pitch 
of extravagant rapture to which I never rose 
before. 

I read your letter— I literally jumped for joy.— 
How could such a mercurial creature as a poet 
lumpishly keep his seat on the receipt of the 
best news from his best friend. I seized my 
gilt-headed Wangee rod, an instrument indis- 
pensably necessary, in my left hand, in the 
moment of inspiration and rapture ; and stride, 
stride— quicker and quicker— out skipt I among 
the broomy banks of Kith, to muse over my joy 
by retail. "To keep within bounds of prose was 
impossible. Mrs. Little's is a more elegant, but 
not a more sincere, compliment to the sweet little 
fellow, than, extempore almost, poured forth to 
him in the following verses. See the poem— 
" On the Birth of a Posthumous Child." 

I am much pleased with your approbation of 
my "Tarn o' Shanter," which you express in 
yonr former letter, though, by the bye. yon load 
iue in that said letter with accusations heavy 
and many: to all of which I plead not guilt!/'. 
Your book is, I hear, on the road to reach me. As 
to printing of poetry, when you prepare it for 
the press, you have only to spell it right, and 
place the capital letters properly: as to the 
punctuation, the printers will do that them- 
selves. 

I have a copy of "Tarn o'Shanter" ready to 
send by the first opportunity; it is too heavy to 
send by post. 

I heard of Mr. Corbet latelv. He, in conse- 
quence of your recommendation, is most zealous 
to serve me. Please favour me soon with an 
account of your good folks ; if Mrs. H. is re- 
covering, and the young gentleman doing well. 



* The preceding letter explains the feelings 
under which this was written. The strain of in- 
lignant invective goes on seme time longer in 
the style which cm- bard was too apt to indulge 
and of which the reader has already seen so 
much. 



NO. LXVIII. 

TO MR. PETER HILL. 

17th January, 1791. 
Take these two guineas, and place them over 

against that account of yours, which 

has gagged my mouth these five or six months! 
I can as little write good things as apologies to 
the man I owe money to. O the supreme curse 
of making three guineas do the business of five! 
Not all the labours of Hercules— not all the 
Hebrews' three centuries of Egyptian bondage, 
were such an insuperable business, such an 

task! Poverty! thou half-sister of death, 

thou cousin-german of hell ! where shall I find 
force of execration equal to the amplitude of 
thy demerits? Oppressed by thee, the venerable 
ancient, grown hoary in the practice of every 
virtue, laden with years and wretchedness, im- 
plores a little— little aid to support his existence 
from a stony-hearted son of Mammon, whose 
sun of prosperity never knew a cloud; and is by 
him betrayed and insulted. Oppressed by thee, 
the man of sentiment, whose heart glows with 
independence, and melts with sensibility, inly 
pines under the neglect, or writhes in bitterness 
of soul, under the contumely of arrogant, un- 
feeling, wealth. Oppressed by thee, the son of 
genius, whose ill-starred ambition plants him at 
the tables of the fashionable and polite, must see 
in suffering silence his remark neglected, and 
his person despised, while shallow greatness, in 
his idious attempts at wit. shall meet with coun- 
tenance and applause. Nor is it only the family 
of worth that have reason to complain of thee; 
the children of folly and vice, though in common 
with thee, the offspring of evil, smart equally 
under thy rod. Owing to thee, the man of un- 
fortunate disposition, and neglected education, 
is condemned as a fool for his dissipation, de- 
spised and shunned as a needy wretch when his 
follies, as usual, bring him to want, and when 
his unprincipled necessities drive him to dis- 
honest practices, he is abhorred as a miscreant, 
and perishes by the justice of his country. But 
far otherwise is the lot of the man of family and 
fortune. His early follies and extravagance are 
spirit and fire ; Ms consequent wants are the 
embarrassments of an honest fellow; and when, 
to remedy the matter, he has gained a legal 
commission to plunder distant provinces, or 
massacre peaceful nations, he returns, perhaps 
laden with the spoils of rapine and murder; lives 

wicked and respected, and dies a and a 

lord.— Nay, worst of all, alas for helpless woman ! 
the needy prostitute, who has shivered at the 
corner of the street, waiting to earn the wages 
of carnal prostitution. Is left neglected and in- 
sulted, ridden down bv the chariot wheels of 
the coronetted kip, hurrying on to the guilty 
assignation: she, too. without the same 
necessities to plead, riots nightly in the same 
guilty trade. 

Well! divines mar say of it what they please, 
but execration is to the mind, what phlebotomy 
Is to the bodv; the vital sluices of both are 
wonderfully relieved by their respective evacua- 
tions. 

NO. LXXIX. 

T O M R S. I) U N L P. 

EUsland, 1th February, 1791. 
When I tell you, madam, that by a fall, not 
from ray horse", but with my horse, I have been a 
criple some time, and that this is the first day 
mv arm and hand have been able to serve me in 
writing, von will allow that it is too good an 
apology for my seemingly ungrateful silence. I 
am now ire t ting bc-tttr. and am able to rhyme a 
little, which implies some tolerable ease; as I 
cannot think that ths most poetic genius is able 
to compose on the rack, 



164 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



I do not remember if ever I mentioned to you 
my having an idea of composing an elegy on the 
late Miss Burnet, of Monboddo. I had the honour 
of being pretty well acquainted with her, and 
have seldom felt so much at the loss of an ac- 
quaintance as when I heard that so amiable and 
accomplished a piece of God's works was no 
more. I have, as yet, gone no farther than the 
following fragments, of which please let me have 
your opinion. You know that elegy is a subject 
so much exhausted, that any new idea on the 
business is not to be expected ; 'tis well if we can 
place an old idea in a new light. 

Your kind letter, with your kind remembrance 
of your godson, came safe. This last, madam, is 
scarcely what my pride can bear. As to the 
little fellow, lie is, partiality apart, the finest boy 
I have of long time seen. He is now seventeen 
months old, has the small-pox and measles over, 
has cut several teeth, and vet never had a grain 
of doctors' drugs in his bowels. 

I am truly happy to hear that the little 
"floweret" is blooming so fresh and fair, and 
that the "mother plant" is rather recovering 
her drooping head. Soon and well ma v her ••cruel 
wounds" be healed! I have written thus far with 
a good deal of difficult v. When I get a little abler, 
you shall hear farther from. 

m, yours, &c. 



NO. LXX.X. 

TO LADY W. M. CONSTABLE. 

acknowledging a pbesent of a valuable 
snuff-box, with. a fine pictttkb of mary, 
qdeen of scots, ox the j.id. 

My Lady,— 

Nothing less than the unlucky accident of hav- 
ing lately broken my right arm could have 
prevented me, the moment 1 received your 
ladvship s elegant present bv .Mrs. Miller, from 
returning you my wannest 'and most grateful 
acknowledgments. I assure your ladyship, I 
shall set it apart: the symbols of religion shall 
only be more sacred. In the moment of poetic 
composition, the bo\ shall be my inspiring genius. 
When I would breathe the comprehensive wish of 
benevolence for the happiness of others, I shall 
recollect your ladyship; when I would interest 
rav fancv in the distresses incident to humanitv, 
I shall remember the unfortunate Mary. 



xo. lxxxi. 
TO MRS. GRAHAM, OF FINTRY. 
Madam,— 
Whether it is that the story of our Mary. 
Queen of Scots, has a peculiar effect on the feel- 
ings of a poet, or whether I have, in the inclosed 
ballad, succeeded beyond my usual poetic suc- 
cess, I know not ; but it has pleased me beyond 
any effort of ray muse for a good while past ; on 
that account I inclose it particularly to you. It 
is true the purity of my motives may be sus- 
pected. I am already deeply indebted to Mr. 

G -'s goodness : and. what, in the usual 

way of men, is of infinitely greater importance. 
Mr. G. can do me service of the utmost impor- 
tance in time to come. I was born a poor dog; 
and however I may occasionally pick a better 
bone than I used to do, I know I must live 
and die poor; but I will indulge the flattering 
faith that my poetry will considerably oiitlieve 
my poverty; and without any fustian affection 
of* spirit, I' can promise and affirm that it must 
be no ordinary craving of the latter shall ever 
make me do anything injurious to the honest 
fame of the former. Whatever may be my fail- 
ings—for failings are a part of human nature,— 
may they ever be those of a generous heart and 



you art 



an independent mind. It is no fault of mine that 

I was born to dependence : nor is it, Mr. G 's 

chiefest praise that he can command influence; 
but it is his merit to bestow, not only with the 
kindness of a brother, but with the politeness of 
a gentleman: and I trust it shall be mine to re- 
ceive thankfulness, and remember with undimi- 
nished gratitude. 

NO. LXXXII. 

TO MR. MOORE. 

Ellisland, 2$th February, 17!)!. 
I DO not know, sir, whether you are a sub- 
scriber to "Grose's Antiquities of Scotland." If 
i enclosed poem will not be altogether 
. Captain Grose did me the favour 
to send me a dozen copies of the proof-sheet, of 
which this is one. Should you have read the 
piece before, still this will answer the principal 
end I have in view; it will give me another 
opportunity of thanking you for all your good- 
ness to the rustic bard; and also of showing you 
that the abilities you have been pleased to com- 
mend and patronize are still employed in the 
way yon wish. 

The "Elegy on Captain Henderson, " is a tri- 
bute to the memory of a man 1 loved much, 
l'oets have in this the same advantage as the 
Roman Catholics; they can be of service to their 
friends after they have past that bourne where 
all other kindness ceases to be of anv avail. 
Whether, after all, either the one or the other 
be of any real service to the dead. is. I fear. v<-.-\- 
prohlematical; but I am sure they are highly 
gratifying to the living: and as a vi'ry orthodox 
text, I forget win-re in Scripture, says, "what- 
soever is not of faith, is sin ;" so say I, whatso- 
ever is not detrimental to society, and is of 
positive enjoyment, is of God, the* giver of all 
good things, and ought to he received and en- 
joyed by his creatures with thankful delight. 
As ahno'st all my religious tenets originate from 
mv heart. I am wonderfully pleased with the 
idea, that I can still keep up a tender intercourse^ 
with the dearly-beloved friend, or still more 
dearly-beloved 'mistress, who is gone to the 
world of spirits. 

The ballad on Queen Mary was begun while I 
was busy with ••Percy's Reliques of English 
Poetry." By the way, how much is every 
honest heart, which ha : a tincture of Cale- 
donian prejudice, obliged toyoti for your glorious 
story of Buchanan and Targe, "fwas an un- 
equivocal proof of your loval gallantry of soul, 
giving Targe the victory. I should have been 
mortified to the ground if you had not. 



I have just read over, once more of many 
times, your "Zeluco." I marked with my pencil, 
as I went along, every passage that pleased me 
particularly above the rest; and one, or two, I 
think, which, with humble deference, I am dis- 
posed to think unequal to the merits of the book. 
I have sometimes thought to transcribe these 
marked passages, or at least so much of them as 
to point where they are, and send them to you. 
Original strokes, that strongly depict the human 
heart, is your and Fielding s province, beyond 
any other novelist I have ever perused. Richard- 
son indeed might perhaps be excepted; but, un- 
happilv, his dramatis personce are beings of some 
other "world : and, however they may captivate 
the unexperienced, romantic fancy of a boy or a 
girl, they will ever, in proportion as we have 
made human nature our study, dissatisfy our 
riper minds. 

As to my private concerns, I am going on a 
mighty tax-gatherer before the Lord, and have 
lately had the interest to get myself ranked on 
the list of excise as a supervisor. I am not yet 
employed as such, but in a few years 1 shall fall 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



165 



into the file of sttpei'visorship by seniority. I 
have had an immense loss in the death of the 
Earl of Glencairn ; the patron from -whom all my 
fame and good fortune took its rise. Independent 
of my grateful attachment to him, which was 
indeed so strong that it pervaded my very soul, 
and was entwined with the thread of my exist- 
ence ; so soon as the Prince's friends had got in 
(and every dog, you know, has his day), my get- 
ting forward in the excise would have been an 
easier business than otherwise it will be. Though 
this was a comsummation devoutly to be wished, 
yet, thank heaven, I can live and rhyme as I 
am : and as to my boys, poor little fellows ! if I 
cannot place them on as high an elevation in life 
as I could wish, I shall, if I am favoured so much 
of the Disposer of events as to see that period, 
fix them on as broad and independent a basis as 
possible. Among the many wise adages which 
have been treasured up by our Scottish an- 
cestors, this is one of the best: ''Better be the 
head of the commonaltv, as the tail o' the 
gentry." 

But I am got on a subject, which, however 
interesting to me. is of no manner of consequence 
to yon; so I shall give you a short poem on the 
otherpage, and close this, with assuring you how 
sincerely I have the houour to be, yours, &c. 

Written on the blank leaf of a book, which I 
presented to a very young lady, whom -I had 

formerlv characterised, under tli ; denomination 
of "The Red. Rose." 

NO. LXXXIII. 

TO THE REV. ARCH. ALISON. 
Ellisland, mar Dumfries, l-.ih Feb., 1701. 
Sir,— 
You must, by this time, have set me down as 
one of the most ungrateful of men. You did me 
the honour to present me with a book which 
does honour to science and the intellectual 
powers of man, and I have not even so much as 
acknowledged the receipt of it. Flattered as I 
was by your telling me that you wished to have 
my opinion of the work, the old spiritual enemy 
of mankind, who knows well that vanity is one 
of the sins that most easily beset me, put it into 
my head to ponder over the performance with 
the look-out of a critic, and to draw up forsooth 
a deep-learned digest of strictures on a composi- 
tion, of which, in fact, until I read the book, I 
did not even know the first principles. I own, 
sir, that at first glance, several of your proposi- 
tions startled me as paradoxical. That the 
martial clangour of a trumpet had somethingin it 
vastly more grand, heroic, and sublime than 
the twingle-twangle of a Jews' harp ; that the 
delicate flexure of a rose-twig, when the half- 
blown flower is heavy with the tears of the 
dawn, was infinitely more beautiful and elegant 
than the upright stub of a burdock; and that 
from something innate and independent of all 
association of ideas:— these I set down as irre- 
fragable, orthodox truths, until perusing your 
book shook my faith.— In short, sir, except 
"Euclid's Elements of Geometry," which Imade 
a shift to unravel by my father" - fire-side, in the 
printer evening of" the first season I held the 
plough, 1 never read a book which gave me such 
a quantum of information, and added so much to 
-my stock of ideas as your "Essays on the Prin- 
ciples of Taste." One thing, sir, you must for- 
give my mentioning as an uncommon merit in 
the work— I mean, the language. To clothe 
abstract philosophy in elegance of style sounds 
something like a contradiction in terms; but 
you have convinced -me that they are quite com- 
patible. 

I enclose you some poetic bagatelles of my late 
composition. The one in print is my first r --~ 
in the way of telling a tale. I am, sir, 



1*0. LXXXIV. 
EXTRACT OF A LETTER 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

12th March, 1791. 
If the foregoing piece be worth your strictures, 
let me have them. For my own part, a thing 
that I have just composed always appears 
through a double portion of that partial medium 
in which an author will ever view his own works. 
I believe, in general, novelty has something in 
it that inebriates the fancy, and not mifrequently 
dissipates and fumes away like other intoxica- 
tion, and leaves the poor patient, as usual, with 
an aching heart. A striking instance of this 
might be adduced in the revolution of manv a 
hymeneal honeymoon. But lest I sink into 
stupid prose, and so sacrilegiously intrude on 
the office of my parish priest, I shall fill up the 
page in my own way, and give you another song 
of my late composition, which will appear, per- 
haps, in Johnson's work as well as the former. 

You must know a beautiful Jacobite air, 
"There'll never be peace till Jamie comes hame." 
When political combustion ceases to be the ob- 
ject of princes and patriots, it then, you know, 
becomes the lawful prey of historians and 
poets. 



; By yon castle - 



,' at the close of the day/' , 



If yon like the air, and if the stanzas hit your 
fancy, you cannot imagine, my dear friend, how 
much you would oblige me, if, by the charms of 
your delightful voice, you would give my honest 
effusion to "the memory of joys that are past," 
to the few friends whom you indulge in that 
pleasure. But I have subscribed on 'till I hear 
the clock has intimated the near approach of 

" That hour o' night's black arch the key- 
So good-night to you ! Sound be your sleep, and 
delectable your dreams! Apropos, how do you 
like this thought in a ballad I have just now on 
the tapis ? 

I look to the west, when I gae to rest, 
That happy mv dreams and mv slumbers may 
be: 

For far in the west is he I lo'e best— 
The lad that is dear to my baby and me ! 

Good-night, once more, and God bless you ! 



NO. LXXXV. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Ellisland, Uth April 1791. 
I am: once more able, my honoured friend, to 
return you, with my own hand, thanks for the 
many instances of your friendship, and particu- 
larly for your kind anxiety in this last disaster 
that my evil genius had in store, for me. How- 
ever, life is chequered— joy and sorrow— for on 
Saturday last, Mrs. Burns made me a present of 
a fine boy; rather stouter, but not so handsome 
as vonr godson was at his time of life. Indeed, 
1 look on your little namesake to be my chef 
d'eeuvre in that species of manufacture, as L look 
on "Tain o' Shunter" to be mv standard per- 
formance in the poetical line. 'Tistrue, both the 
one and the other discover a spice of roguish 
waggery, that might, perhaps, be as well spared ; 
but then, they also show, in my opinion, a force 
of genius, and a finishing polish; that I despair 
of ever excelling. Mrs. Burns is getting stout 
again, and laid as lustily about her to-dav at 
\ breakfast as a reaper from a corn-ridge. That 
' is the peculiar privilege and blessing of our hale, 



sprightly damsels, that are bred among the hay 
and heather. We cannot hope for that highly- 
polished mind that charming delicacy of soul,— 
which is found among the female world in the 
more elevated stations of life, and which is cer- 
tainly by far the most bewitching charm in the 
famous cestus of Venus. It is, indeed, such an 
inestimable treasure, that where it can be had 
in its native, heavenly purity, unstained by some 
one or other of the many shades of affectation, 
and unalloyed by some one or other of the many 
species of caprice, I declare to Heaven, I should 
think it cheaply purchased at the expense of 
every other earthly good! But as this angelic 
creature is, I am afraid, extremely rare in any 
Station and rank of life, and totally denied 
to such an humble one as mine, we meaner 
mortals must put up with the next rank of 
female excellence — as fine a figure and face 
we can produce as any rank of life what- 
ever; rustic, native '/race; unaffected modesty, 
and unsullied purity ; nature's mother-wit 
and the rudiments of taste; a simplicity of 
soul unconscious of. because unacquainted 
with, the crooked ways of a selfish, interested, 
disingenuous world;— and the dearest charm 
of all the rest, a yielding sweetness of dispo- 
sition, and a generous warmth of heart, grate- 
ful for love on our part, and ardently flowing 
with a more than equal return; these, with 
a healthv frame, a sound, vigorous constitution, 
which vi-ur high ranks can scarcely ever hope to 
enjoy. 'are the charms of lovely woman in my 
humble walk of life. 

This is the greatest effort mv broken arm has 
yet made. Do, let me hear by first po-t, how 
cher in-lit Monsieur comes on with his small-pox. 
May Almighty Goodness preserve and restore 
iiiin! 



NO. I.XXXVI. 

TO MB. CUNNINGHAM. 

11M June, 1791. 

LET me interest vou. my dear Cunningham, in 
behalf of the gentleman who waits on you with 
this. He is a Mr. Clarke, of Moffat, principal 
M-hoolniaster there, and is at present suffering 

severely under tin- of one or two 

powerful individuals of his employers. He is 
accused of harshness to . . . . . that were 
placed under his care. God help the tcaehei, it 
a man of sensibility and genius and -uch is my 
friend Clarke, when a booby father presents 
him with his booby son. and ii.«im v ,i, hu'hte miL' 
up t lie ravs of science, in a tellow s head whose 
skull is 'impervious and inaccessible by any 
other way than a positive fracture with a 
cudgel: a fellow whom, in fact, it savours of im- 
piety to attempt making a scholar of. as he lias 
been marked a blockhead in the book of fate, at 
the Almighty fiat of his Creator. . 

The patrons of Moffat school are, the ministers, 
magistrates, and town-council of Edinburgh: 
and as the business comes now before them, let 
me beg my dearest friend to do every thing in 
his power to serve the interests of a man ot 
genius and worth, and a man whan I particu- 
larly respect and esteem. You know some good 
fellows among the magistracy and council, 
.... but particularly, you 
have niuch to s'av with a reverend gentleman to 
whom vou have the honour of being very nearly 
related", and whom this country and age have had 
the honour to produce. 1 need not name the his- 
torian of Charles V.* I tell him, through the 
medium of his nephew's influence, that Mr. 
Clarke is a gentleman who will not disgrace 

* Dr. Robertson was uncle to Mr. Cunning- 
ham. 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 

en his patronage. I know the merits of the 
cause thoroughly, and say it, that my friend is 
falling a sacrifice to prejudiced ignorance, and 
God help the children of depen- 
dence ! Hated and persecuted by their enemies, 
and too often, alas! almost unexceptionably, re- 
ceived by their friends with disrespect and re- 
proach, under the thin disguise of cold civility 
and humiliating advice. O to be a sturdy sa 
vage, stalking in the pride of his independence, 
amid the solitary wilds of his deserts, rather 
than in civilized life, helplessly to tremble for 
subsistence, precarious as the caprice of a fellow- 
creature! Every man has his virtues, and no 
man is without 'his failings ; and curse on that 
privileged, plain-dealing of friendship which, in 
the hour of my calamity, cannot reach forth the 
helping-hand without at the same time pointing 
out those failings, and apportioning them then- 
share in procuring my present distress. My 
friends, for such the world calls ye, and such ye 
think yourselves to be, pass by virtues if you 
please Jmt do, also, spare my follies : the first 
will witness in my breast for themselves, and 
the last will give pain enough to the ingenuous 
mind without vou. And, since deviating more or 
less from the 'paths of propriety and rectitude 
must be incident to human nature, do thou, for- 
tune, put it in my power, always from myself, 
and of myself, to bear the consequences of those 
errors. I do not want to be independent that I 
may sin, but I want to be independent in my 



To return, in this rambling letter to the sub- 
ject I set out with, let me recommend my friend 
Mr. Clarke to your acquaintance and good 
offices; his worth entitles him to the one, and 
hi- -rat it udc will merit the other. I long much 
to hear from you. Adieu ! 

NO. LXXXV1I. 
FROM THE EARL OF BUCIIAX. 

Dryburgh Abbey, \lth June, 1791. 
Loud Buciian has the pleasure to invite Mr. 
Burns to make one at the coronation of the bust 
,,l Th-msoii, on Kdnain Hill, on the 22nd of Sey- 
tember; for which day perhaps his muse may 
inspire an ode suited to the occasion, .-suppose 
Mr. Burns should, leaving the Nith, go across 
the countrv. and meet the Tweed at the nearest 
point from' his farm, and. wandering along the 
pastoral banks ,,f Thomson's pure parent stream, 
catch inspiration on the devious walk, till he 
finds Lorn Buciian, sitting on the ruins of Dry- 
burgh. There the coramendator will give him 
a hearty welcome, and try to light his lainp at 
the pure flame of native genius, upon the altar 
of Caledonian virtue. This poetical poramula- 
tion of the Tweed is a thought of the late Sir 
Gilbert Elliot's and of Lord Minto's, followed 
out by his accomplished grandson the present 
Sir Gilbert, who, having been with Lord Luchaii 
lately, the project was renewed, and will, they 
hope, be executed in the maimer proposed. 



NO. LXXXVIII. 

TO THE EARL OF BUCIIAN. 



Language smics unaer tne amour ui mi i> -fl- 
ings, when I would thank your lordship for t u 
honour von have done me in inviting me to mak. 
one at the coronation of the bust of Thomson 
In mv first enthusiasm in reading the card yoi 
did me the honour to write me, I overlooks 
every obstacle, and determined to go ; but I feai 
it win not be in my power. A week or two- 
absence, in the very middle of my harvest, i 
what I much doubt I dare not venture on. 

Your lordship hints at an ode for the occasion 



COitKESPONDEXCE OF BURNS. 



167 



but who Would write after Collins ? I read over 
his verses to the memory of Thomson, and de- 
spaired—I got indeed to the length of three or 
four stanzas, in the way of address to the shade 
of the bard, on crowning his bust. I shall 
trouble your lordship, with the subjoined copy 
of them, which, I am afraid, will be but too con- 
vincing a proof how unequal 1 am to the task. 
However, it affords me an opportunity of ap- 
proaching your lordship, and declaring how 
sincerely aud gratefully 1 have the honour to be, 



his lordship's goodness. The sables I did myself 
the honour to wear to his lordship's memory 
were not the "mockery of woe." Nor shall my 
gratitude perish with me: — If, among my chil- 
dren, I shall have a son that has a heart, he 
shall hand it down to his child as a family honour, 
and a family debt, that my dearest existence I 
owe to the noble house of Glencairn! 

I was about to say, my lady, that if you think 
the poem may venture to see the light, I would, 
in some way or other, give it to the world.* 



NO. LXXXIX. 

FROM THE SAME. 
Lryburgh Abbey, 18th September, 1791. 
Sir,— 

Your address to the shade of Thomson has been 
well received by the public ; and though I should 
disapprove of your allowing Pegasus to ride with 
you off the field of your honourable and useful 
profession, yet I cannot resist an impulse which 
I feel at this moment to suggest to your muse, 
" Harvest Home," as an excellent "subject for 
her grateful song, in which the peculiar aspect 
and manners of our country might furnish an 
excellent portrait and landscape of Scotland, for 
the employment of happy moments of leisure 
and recess, from your more important occupa- 
tions. 

Your "Halloween." and "Saturday Night," 
will remain to distant posterity as interesting 
pictures of rural innocence and happiness in your 
native country, and were happily written in the 
dialect of the people ; but •• Harvest Home," 
being suited to descriptive poetry, except where 
colloquial, may escape disguise o'f u dialect which 
admits of no elegance or dignity of expression. 
Without t lie assistance of any god or goddess, 
and without the invocation of any foreign muse, 
you may convey in epistolary form the descrip- 
tion of a scene so gladdening and picturesque, 
with all the concomitant local position, landscape 
aud costume; contrasting the peace, improve- 
ment, and happiness of the borders of the once 
hostile nations of Britain, with their former op- 
pression aud misery, and showing, in lively and 
beautiful colours, the beauties and jovs of a rural 
life. And as the unvitiated heart is naturally 
disposed to overflow in gratitude in the moment 
of prosperity, such a subject would furnish you 
with an amiable opportunity of perpetuating 'the 
names of Glencairn, .Miller, and your other emi- 
nent benefactors which, from what I know of 
your spirit, and have seen of your poems and 
letters, will not deviate from the chastity of 
praise that is so uniformly united to true taste 
and genius. I am, Sir, &c. 



TO LADY CUNNINGHAM. 

My Lady,— 
I would, as usual, have availed mvself of the 
privilege your goodness lias allowed me of send- 
ing vou anything I compose in the poetical wav; 
but as I had resolved, so soon as the shock of 
my irreparable loss would allow me, to pay a 
tribute to mv late benefactor, I determined to 
make that the first piece I should do mvself the 
honour of sending you. Had the wing of my 
fancy been equal to the ardour of mv heart, the 
enclosed had been much more worthy of vonr 
perusal; as it is, I beg leave to lay it at your 
ladyship's feet. As all the world knows' my 
obligations to the late Earl of Glencairn, I would 
wish to show as openlv that my heart glows 
With the most grateful sense of remembrance of 



TO ME. AINSLIE. 

My Dear Aisslie,— 

Can you minister to a mind diseased ? Can 
you, amid the horrors of penitence, regret, re- 
morse, headache, nausea, and all the d ;l 

hounds of hell, that beset a poor wretch, who 
has been guilty of the sin of drunkenness,— can 
you speak to the troubled soul? 

Miserable perdu that I am, I have tried every- 
thing that used to amuse me, but in vain; here 
must I set a monument of the vengeance laid up 
in store for the wicked, slowly counting every 
chick of the clock as it slowly— slowly numbers 
over these lazy scoundrels of hours, who, d—n 
them, are ranked up before me, every one at his 
neighbour's backside, and everyone with a bur- 
den of anguish on his back, to pour on my 
devoted head— and there is none to pity me. My 
wife scolds me ! my business torments me, and 
my sins come staring me in the face, every one 
telling a more bitter tale than his fellow.— When 
I tell you even . . . has lost his power to 
please, you will guess something of my hell 
within, and all around me— 1 began "Elibanks 
and Eiibraes," but the stanza fell unenjoyedand 
unfinished from my listless tongue ; at last 1 
luckily thought of reading over an old letter of 
yours that lay by me in my book-case, and I felt 
something for the first time since I opened my 

eyes, of pleasurable existence. Well— I begin 

to breathe a little, since I began to write you. 
How are you. and what are you doing ? How 
goes law? Apropos, for connection's sake, do 
not address me supervisor, for that is an honour 
I cannot pretend to— I am on the list, as we call 
it, for a supervisor, and will be called out by and 
by to act one; but at present, I am a simple, 
guager, tho' t'other day I got an appointment to 
an excise division of 25 per ann. better than the 
rest. My present income, down money, is £70 
per ann. 



TO MISS DAVIES. 
It is impossible, madam, that the generous 
warmth and angelic purity of your youthful 
mind can have any idea of tha" moral disease 
under which I unhappily must rank as the chief 
of sinners; I mean a torpitude of the moral 
powers that may be called, a lethargy of con- 
science.— In vain remorse rears her horrent crest, 
and rouses all her snakes ; beneath the deadly, 
fixed eye and leaden hand of indolence, their 
wildest ire is charmed into the torpor of the bat, 
slumbering out the rigours in winter in the 
chink of a mine i wall. Nothing less, madam, 
could have made me so long neglect your oblig- 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



ing commands. Indeed. I had one apology— the 
bagatelle was nut worth presenting. Besides, 

so strongly am I interested in Miss D 's fate 

and welfare in the serious business of life, amid 
Its chances and changes, that, to make her the 
subject of a silly ballad, is downright mockery 
of these ardent feelings ; 'tis like an impertinent 
jest to a dying friend. 

Gracious Heaven ! why this disparity between 
our wishes and our powers'/ Why is the most 
generous wish to make others blest impotent 
and ineffectual— as the idle breeze that crosses 
the pathless desert ? In my walks of life, I have 
met with a few people to whom how gladly 
would I have said—" Go, be happy ! I know that 
your hearts have been wounded by the scorn of 
the proud, whom accident has placed above you 
—or worse still, in whose hand are. perhaps, 
placed many of the comforts of your life. But 
there! ascend that rock, Independence, and look 
justly down on their littleness ol soul. Make the 
worthless tremble under your indignation, and 
the foolish sink before your contempt ; and 
largely impart that happiness to others, which, 
I am certain, will give yourselves so mnch plea- 
sure to bestow!'' 

Whv, dear madam, must I wake from this de- 
lightful reverie, and find it all a dream? Why, 
amid my generous enthusiasm, mu-t 1 find mv- 
self poor and powerless, incapable of . 
tear from the eye of pity, or of addiir. 
fort to the friend I love!— Out upon the Avorld! >ay 
i. that its affairs are administered so ill ? They 
talk of reform;— good Heaven! what a reform 
would I make among the sons, and even the 
daughters of men !— Down, immediately, should 
from the high place- where misbegotten 
chance has perked them op, and through life 
should i hey skulk, ever haunted by their native 
insignificance, as the accompa- 

nied by its shadow.— A- for a much i 
mutable class, the knaves. I am at a loss what 
to do with them: Had I a world, there should 
not be a knave in it. 



But the hand that i 
till: and I would | 
could kindly forgi vi 
Still the inequaliti 
comparatively tolei 



i would liberally 

mgraen, 

•licacy. 



... tenderness, accompanying every view ... 

which we can place lovely Woman, that arc 

grated and shocked at the rude, capricious dis- 

tinctions of fortune. Women ai 

of life: let there be sli-ht .! -iy - of ■ recedencv 

among them— but let them be all sacred. 
r this last sentiment be right or 
accountable; it is nn original component 

feature of my mind. 



TO MRS. DUXLOP. 

5th January, 1792. 
my hurried life, madam: I can onlv 
of time; however. I am glad of 
( .: thing; since I finished the other sheet, the 
1 olitical blast that threatened my welfare i> 
overblown. I have corresponded with Com- 
missioner Graham, for the Board had made me 
the subject of their animadversions ; and now I 
have the pleasure of informing you, that all is 
set to rights in that quarter. Sow. as to these 

informers, may the devil be let loose to but 

hold! I was praying most fervently in my last 
sheet, and I must not so soon fall a swearing in 
this. ' 
Alas! how little do the wantonly or idlv 
" think what mischief they do by their 
malicions insinuations, indirect impertinence, or 
thoughtless blabbings. What a difference there 



is in intrinsic worth, candour, benevolence, 
generosity, kindness, iii all the charities and ad 
the virtues, between one class of human beincrs 
and another. For instance, the amiable circle I 
so lately mixed with in the hospitable hall of 

1) , their generous hearts— then - nncontami- 

nated. dignified minds— their informed and po- 
lished understandings,— what a contrast, when 
compared— if such comparing were not down- 
right sacrilege— with the soul of the miscreant 
who can deliberately plot the destruction of an 
honest man that never offended him, and with 
a grin of satisfaction see the unfortunate being, 
his faithful wife, and prattling innocents, turned 
over to beggary and ruin! 

Your cup, iny (bar madam, arrived safe. I had 
two worthy fellows dining with me the other 
day, when I, with great formality, produced mv 
whigineleerie cup, and told them that it had 
been a family-piece among the descendants of 
Sir William Wallace. This roused such an en- 
thusiasm, that they insisted on bumpering the 
punch round in it; and by and by, never did 
your great ancestor lava Southron more coni- 
. rest than for a time did your cup my 
two friends. Apropos, this is the season of wish- 
ing. May God bless you, my dear friend, and 
bless me, the humblest and sincerest of your 
friends, by granting you yet many returns of the 
season! May all trood things attend you and 
yours wherever they arc scattered over the 
earth ! 



NO. xciv. 
TO ME. WILLIAM S3IELUE, PRINTER. 
Dumfries. 22nd January, 1702. 
I sir down, my dear sir, to introduce a young 
lady to yon, and a lady in the first ranks of 
fashion, too. What a task! to you— who care 
no more for the herd of animals called young 
ladies, than you do for the herd of animals called 
young gentlemen. To yon who despise and detest 

ings and combinations of fashion as 
an idiot painter that seems industrious to place 

ioIs and unprincipled knaves in the 
foregoing of his picture, while men of sense and 

re too often thrown in the dimmest 
shades. Mrs. Riddel, who will take this letter to 

i her and send it to you, is a character 
that, even in your own way, as a naturalist and 
a philosopher, would be an acquisition to vour 
acquaintance. The lady, too, is a votary of the 
muses: and. as 1 think myself somewhat of a 
judge in my own trade, I assure you that her 
Iways correct, and often elegant, are 
much beyond the common run of the lady- 
poetesses of the day. she is a great admirer of 
your book; and hearing me say that 1 was ac- 
quainted with you. she begged to be known to 

■ is just wing to pay her first visit to 
our Caledonian capital. I told her that her best 
desire her near relation, and your in- 
timate friend. Craitfdarroch, to have you at his 
house while she was there; and lest you might 
think of a lively West Indian girl of eighteen, as 
girls of eighteen too often deserve to be thought 
of, I should take care to remove that prejudice. 
To be impartial, however, in appreciating the 
lady's merits, she has one nnlucky failing, a fail- 
ing which you will easilv discover, as she seems 
rather pleased with indulging in it ; and a failing 
that you will easily pardon, as it is a sin which 
very much besets yourself:— where she dislikes 
or despises, she is apt to make no more a secret 
of it, than where she esteems and respects. 

I will not present vou with the unmeaning 
compliments of the season, but I will send vou 
my warmest wishes and most ardent prayers 
that fortune may never throw your subsistence 
to the mercy of a knave, or set vour character 
on the judgment of a fool, but that, upright and 
erect, you may walk to an honest grave, where 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



men of letters shall say, hear lies a man who did 
honour to science ; and men of worth shall say, 
her- lies a man who did honour to human nature ! 



xo. xcv. 

TO MR W. NICHOL. 

29th February, 1792. 
O THOir, Avisest among- the wise, meridian blaze 
of prudence, full moon of discretion, and chief of 
many counsellors ! how infinitely is thy puddle- 
headed, rattle-headed, wrong-headed, round- 
headed slave indebted to thy super-eminent 
goodness, that from the luminous path of thy 
own right-lined rectitude thou lookest benigmy 
down on an erring wretch, of whom the zig-zag' 
wanderings defy all the powers of calculation, 
from the simple copulation of units, up to the 
hidden mysteries of fluxions ! may one feeble 
ray of that light of wisdom which darts from thy 
sensorium, straight as the arrow of heaven, and 
bright as the meteor of inspiration, may it be my 
portion, so that I may be less unworthy of the 
face and favour of that father of proverbs and 
master of maxims, that antipode of folly, and 
magnet among the sages, the wise and witty 
Willie Xicol! Amen! Amen! Yea. so be it! 

For me! I am a beast, a reptile, and know 
nothing ! From the cave of my ignorance, amid 
the fogs of my dulness, and pestilential fumes of 
my political heresies, I look up to thee, as doth 
a toad through the iron-barred lucerne of a pes- 
tiferous dungeon, to the cloudless glory of a 
summer's sun! Sorely sighing in bitterness of 
soul, I say, when shall 'my name be the quotation 
of the wise, and my countenance be the delight 
of the godly, like the illustrious lord of Lacrgau's 
many hills ?* As for him, his works are perfect ; 
never did the pen of calumny blur the fair page 
of his reputation, nor the bolt of hatred fly at his 
dwelling. 

Thou mirror of purity, when shall the clphino 
lamp of my glimmerous understanding, purged 
from sensual appetites and gross desires, shine 
like the constellation of thy Intellectual powers. 
—As for thee, thy thoughts'are pure, and thy lips 
are holy. Never did the unhallowed breath of 
the powers of darkness, and the pleasures of 
darkness, pollute the sacred flame of the sky- 
descended and heaven-bound desires ; never did 
the vapours of impurity stain the unclouded 
serene of thy cerulean imagination. O that like 
thine were the tenour of my life, like thine the 
tenour of my conversation ! then should no friend 
fear for my strength, no enemy rejoice in my 
weakness ! Then should I lie down and rise up, 
and none to make me afraid. — May thy pity and 
thy prayer be exercised for, O thou lamp of 
j^isdonT and mirror of morality! thy devoted 
slave.f 



xo. xcvi. 

TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

3rd March, 1792. 
Since I wrote to you the last lugubrious sheet, I 
have not had time to write you farther. When 
I say that I had not time, that, as usual, means, 
that the three demons, indolence, business, and 
ennui, have so completely shared my hours 
among them, as nut to leave me a Ave minutes 
fragment to take up a pen in. 

Thank heaven, I feel my spirits buoying up- 
wards with the renovati-' 
in good earnest take up Thomson's songs. I dare 

* Mr. Nicliol. 

t This strain of irony was excited bv a letter of 
Mr. Nicol's containing go >d advice. 



say he thinks I have used him unkindly, and I 
must own with too much appearance of truth. 
Apropos, do you know the much-admired old 
Highland air, called "The Sutor's Dochter V" It 
is a first-rate favourite of mine, and I have 
written what I reckon one of my best songs to 
it. I will send it to you. as it was sung with 
great applause in some fashionable circles by 
Major Robertson, of Lade, who was here with 
his corps. 

There is one commission that I must trouble 
you with. I lately lost a valuable seal, a present 
from a departed friend, which vexes me much. 
I have gotten one of your Highland pebbles, 
which I fancy would make a very decent one ; 
and I want to cut my armorial bearing on it ; 
will you be so obliging as to inquire what will 
be the expense of such a business? I do not 
know that my name is matriculated, as the 
heralds call it. at all; but 1 have invented arms 
for myself, so you know 1 shall be chief of 
the name ; and by courtesy of Scotland, will 
likewise be entitled to supporters. These, how- 
ever, I do not intend having on my seal. I am 
a bit of a herald; and shall give you, secundum 
artem, my arms. On a field, azure, a holly-bush, 
seeded, proper, in base ; a shepherd's pipe and 
crook, saltier- wise, also proper, in chief. On a 
wreath of the colours, a wood-lark perching on 
a sprig of bay-tree, proper: for crests, two 
mottoes, round the top of the crest, "Wood- 
notes wild." At the bottom of the shield, in the 
usual place, " Better a wee bush than nae bield." 
By the shepherd's pipe and crook, I do not mean 
the nonsense of painters of Arcada; but a 
'• Stock and Horn," and a "Culb," such as vou 
see at the head of Allan Ramsay, in Allan's 
quarto edition of the " Gentle Shepherd." By 
the by, do you know Allan? He must be a 
man of very great genius.— Why is he not more 
known?— Has he no patrons? or do "Poverty's 
cold wind and crushing rain beat keen and 
heavy" on him? I once, and but once, got a 
glance of that noble edition of the noblest 
pastoral in the world, and dear as it was, I 
mean dear as to my pocket, 1 would have bought 
it ; but 1 was told that it was printed and en- 
graved for subscribers only. He is the only 
artist who has it genuine pastoral costume. 
What, my dear Cunningham, is there in riches, 
that they narrow and harden the heart so? 
I think were I as rich as the sun, I should be as 
generous as the day ; but as I have no reason to 
imagine my soul a nobler one than any other 
man's, I must conclude that wealth imparts a 
bird-lime quality to the possessor, at which the 
man, in his native poverty, would have revolted. 
What has led me to this, is the idea of such 
merit as Mr. Allan possesses, and such riches 
as a nabob or governor-contractor possesses, 
and why they do not form a mutual league. Let 
wealth shelter and cherish unprotected merit, 
and the gratitude and celebrity of that merit 
will richly repay it. 



NO. XCVII. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

Annan Water Foot, 22nd August, 17P2. 
Do not blame me for it, madame— my own con- 
science, hackneyed and weather-bea'ten as it is 
in watching and reproving my vagaries, fullies. 
indolence, &c, has continued to blame and 
punish me sufficiently. 

Do yon think ft possible, my dear and honoured 
friend, that 1 could be so lost to gratitude for 
many favours : to esteem for much worth, and 
to the honest, kind, pleasurable tie of, now, old 



170 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



acquaintance, and I hope and am sure of pro- 
gressive increasing friendship— as, for a single 
day, not to think of you— to ask the Fates what 
they are doing and about to do with my much- 
beloved friend and her wide-scattered con- 
nexions, and to beg of them to be as kind to you 
and yours as they possibly can. 

Apropos (though how it is apropos, I have not 
leisure to explain), do you know that I am al- 
most in love with an acquaintance of yours?— 
Almost ! said I— I am in love, souse ! over head 
and ears, deep as the most unfathomable abyss 
of the boundless ocean ; but the word, Love, 
owing to the tntermingledcms ol the good and the 
bad, the pure of the impure, in this world, being 
rather an equivocal term for expressing one's 
sentiments and sensations, I must do justice to 
the sacred purity of my attachment. Know, 
then, that the heart-struck awe; the distant 
humble approach; the delight we should have 
in gazing upon and listening to a Messenger of 
Heaven, appearing in all the unspotted purity of 
his celestial home, among the coarse, polluted 
far inferior sons of men, to deliver to them 
tidings that make their hearts swim in joy, and 
their imaginations soar in transport— such, so 
delighting, and so pure, were the emotions of 
my soul on meeting the other day with Miss L— 

B— , your neighbour, at M . Mr. B , with 

his two daughters, accompanied by Mr. H. of 
G. passing through Dumfries a few days ago, on 
their way to England, did me the honour of 
calling on me ; on which I took my horse (though 
Cod knows I could ill spare the time), and ac- 
companied them fourteen or fifteen miles, and 
dined and spent the day with them. Twas 
about nine, 1 think, when Ileftthein; and riding 
home, I composed the following ballad, of 
which you will probably think that you have a 
dear bargain, as it will cost you another groat of 
postage. You must know that there is an old 
ballad beginning with 

1 My bonnie Lizzie Baillie 

I'll row thee in my pladle,' 
So I parodied it as follows, which is literally the 
first copy, "una nointed unanncaled," as Jlalet 
says.— See the poem. 

So much for ballads. I regret that you are 
gone to the east country, as 1 am to be in Ayr- 
shire in about a fortnight. This world of ours, 
notwithstanding it has many good things in it. 
yet it has ever had this curse, that two or three 
people who would be the happier the oftencr 
lliey met together, are almost, without excep- 
tion, always so placed as never to meet but once 
or twice a-year, which, considering the few 
years of a man's life, is a very great -evil under 
the sun," which I do not recollect that Solomon 
has mentioned in his catalogue of the miseries 
of man. I hope and believe that there is a state 
of existence bevond the grave, where the 
worthy of this lite will renew their former in- 
timacies, with this endearing addition, that 
"we meet to part no more." 



'Tell us, ye dead. 
Will none of you in pity disclose the secret 
What tis you are. and we must shortly be !' 

A thousand times have I made this apostrophe 
to the departed sons of men. but not one of them 
has ever thought fit to answer the question. " 
that some courteous ghost would blab it out!"— 
but it cannot be; you and I, my friend, may 
make the experiment by ourselves and for our- 
selves. However, 1 am' so convinced that an 
unshaken faith in the docrines of religion is not 
only necessary, hy making us happier men, that 
I shall take ev^r? eare that your little gcd-son, 
and every little creature that shall call me 
father, shall r>e taught them. 



So ends this heterogeneous letter, written at 
this wild place of the world, in the intervals of 
my labour of discharging a vessel of rum from 
Antigua. 



NO. XCVIII. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

Dumfries, 10th September, 1792. 
No ! I will not attempt an apology.— Amid all my 
hurry of business, grinding the face of the 
publican and the sinner on the merciless wheels 
of the excise ; making ballads, and then drink- 
ing, and singing them ; and, over and above all, 
the correcting the press-work of two different 
publications : still, still I might have stolen five 
minutes to dedicate to one of the first of my 
friends and fellow-creatures. I might have 
done, as I do at present, snatched an hour near 
"witching time of night"— and scrawled a 
page or two. I might have congratulated my 
friend on his marriage ; or I might have thanked 
the Caledonian archers for the honour they 
have done (though, to do myself justice, T in- 
tended to have done both in rhyme, else I had 
done both long ere now). Well, then, here is to 
your good health! foryou must know, 1 have seta 
nipperkin of toddy by me, just by way of spell, 
to keep away the mcikle horned Deil, or any of 
his subaltern imps who may be on their nightly 
rounds. 

But what shall I write to you?— "The voice 
said cry," and I said "what shall I cry?"— O, 
thou spirit ! whatever thou art, or whenever 
thou makest thyself visible! be thou a bogle by 
the eerie side of an auld thorn, in the dreary 
glen through which the herd callan maun 
bicker in his gloamin route frae the faulde ! Be 
thou a brownie, set, at dead of night, to thy task 
by the blazing ingle, or in the solitary barn, 
where the repercussions of thy iron flail half 
affright thvsclf, as thou pcrformest the work of 
twenty of the sons of men, ere the cock-crowing 
summon thee to thy ample cog of substantial 
brose— Be thou a kelpie, haunting the ford or 
ferry, in tin- starless night, mixing thy laughing 
yell" with the howling of the storm, and the 
roaring of the flood, as thou viewest the perils 
and miseries of man on the foundering horse, or 
in the tumbling boat!— Or, lastly, be thou a 
ghost, paving thv nocturnal visits to the hoary 
ruins of decayed grandeur; or, performing thy 
mystic rites in the shadow of thy time-worn 
church, while the moon looks, without a cloud, 
on the silent, ghastly dwellings of the dead 
around thee ; or taking thy stand by the bedside 
of the villain, or the murderer, pourtraying on 
his dreaming fancy, pictures, dreadful as the 
horrors of unveiled hell, and terrible as tin- 
wrath of incensed Deity!— Come, thou spirit, 
but not in those horrid forms; come with the 
milder, gentle, easy inspirations which thou 
breathest round the'wig of the prating advocate, 
or the tete of a tea-sipping gossip, while their 
tongues run at the light-horse galop of clishma- 
claver for ever and ever— come and assist a poor 
devil who is quite jaded in the attempt to 
share half an idea among half a hundred words ; 
to fill up four quarto pages, while he has not got 
one single sentence of recollection, information, 
or remark worth putting pen to paper for. 

1 feel, I feel the presence of supernatural 
assistance! circled in the embrace of my elbow- 
chair, my breast labours, like the bloated Sybil 
on her three-footed stool, and like her, too, 
labours with nonsense. — Nonsense, auspicious 
name! Tutor, friend, and finger-post in the 
mystic mazes of law: the cadaverous paths of 
physic ; and particularly in the sightless soar- 
ings of school divinity", who leaving Common 
Sense confounded at his strength of pinion. 
Reason delirious with eyeing his giddy flight, 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



kr.d Truth creeping back into the bottom of her 
-Well, cursing the hour that ever she offered her 
scorned alliance to the wizard power of Theologic 
Vision— raves abroad on all the winds. " On earth 
Discord ! a gloomy Heaven above, opening her 
jealous gates to the nineteen thousandtli part of 
the tithe of mankind ! and below, an inescapable 
and inexorable hell, expanding its leviathan 
jaws for the vast residue of mortals!*'— O 
doctrine ! comfortable and healing to the weary, 
wounded soul of a man! Ye sons and daughters 
of affliction, jq pauvres miserable, to whom the 
day brings no pleasure, and night yields no rest, 
be comforted ! •' Tis but one to nineteen hundred 
thousand that your situation will mend in this 
world;" so, alas! the experience of the poor and 
needy too often affirms; and 'tis nineteen 
hundred thousand to one, by the dogmas of 

■ •, that you will be damned in the world to 

come ! 

But of all Xonsense, Religious nonsense is the 
most nonsensical; so enough, and more than 
enough of it. Only, by the by, will you, or can 
you tell me, my dear "Cunningham, why a sec- 
tarian turn of mind has always a tendency to 
narrow and illiberalize the heart? They are 
orderly; they may be just; nay, I have known 
them merciful ; biit still your children of sanc- 
tity move among their fellow-creatures with a 
nostril-snuffing putrescence, and a foot-spurning 
filth, in short, with a conceited dignity that your 

titled or any other of your 

Scottish lordlings of seven centuries standing, 
display, when they accidentally mix among the 
many aproned sons of mechanical life. I re- 
member, in my plough-boy days, I could not 
conceive it possible that a noble" lord could be a 
fool, or a godly man be a knave.— How ignorant 
are plough-boj-s!— Zs'ay, I have since discovered 

that a godhi woman may be a !— But hold 

—Here's t'ye again — this rum is generous An- 
tigua, so a very unfit menstruum for scandal. 

Apropos ! how do you like,— 1 mean really like 
the married life ? Ah, my friend ! matrimony is 
quite a different thing from what your love-sick 
youths and sighing uirls take it to be ! But mar- 
riage, we are^ told, is appointed by God, and I 
shall never quarrel with any of His institutions. 
I am a husband of older standing than you, and 
shall give you my ideas of the conjugal state— 
(en passant, you know I am no Latinist, is not 
conjugal derived from jugum, a yoke?) Well, 
then, the scale of good-wifeship I divide into ten 
parts. — Good-nature, four; Good Sense, two; 
Wit, one; Personal charms, viz., a sweet face, 
eloquent eyes, fine limbs, graceful carriage, (1 
would add a fine waist, too, but that is so soon 
spoilt, you know), all these, one ; as to the other 
qualities belonging to. or attending on, a wife, 
such as Fortune. Connexions, Education, (I 
mean Education extraordinary,) Family Blood, 
&c, divide the two remaining degrees among 
them as yon please; only, remember that all 
these minor properties must be expressed bv 
fractions, for there is not any one of them, in 
the aforesaid scale, entitled to the dignity of an 
integer. 

As for the rest of mv fancies and reveries- 
how I lately met with .Miss Leslie Bailey, the 
most beautiful, elegant woman in the world— 
how^ I accompanied her and her family fifteen 
miles on their journey, out of pure devotion, to 
admire the loveliness of the works of God, in 
such an unequalled display of them — how, in 
galloping home at night, I made a ballad on 
her— behold all these things are written in the 
chronicles of my imagination, and shall be read 
by thee, my dear friend, and by thy beloved 
spouse, my other -dear friend, at a more conve- 
nient season. 

Now, to thee, and to thy be fore-designed 
bosom-companion, be given the precious things 
brought forth by the sun, and the precious things 



brought forth by the moon, and the benignest 
influence of the stars, and the living streams 
which flow from the fountains of life, and by the 
tree of life, for ever and ever I Amen ! 



no. xcix. 

TO MRS. DUXLOP. 

Dumfries, 2ith September, 1792. 
I have this moment, my dear madam, yours of 
the twenty-third. All your other kind reproaches, 
your news, &c, are out of my head when I read 

and think on Mrs. H "s situation. Good God! 

a heart-wounded helpless young woman— in a 
strange, foreign land, and that land convulsed 
with every horror that can harrow the human 
feelings— sick— looking, longing, for a comforter 
but finding none— a mother's feelings, too — but 
it is too much: he who wounded (he only can) 
may He heal!* 



I wish the farmer great joy of his new acquisi- 
tion to his family I cannot say that 

I give him joy of his life as a farmer. 'Tis., as a 
farmer paying a dear, unconscionable rent, a 
cursed life ! As to a laird farming his own pro- 
perty ; sowing his own corn in hope ; and reap- 
ing it, in spite of brittle weather, in gladness ; 
knowing that none can say unto him, "what 
dost thou?" fattening his herds; shearing his 
flocks; rejoicing at Christmas; and begetting 
sons and daughters, until he be the venerated, 
grey-haired leader of a little tribe — 'tis a 
heavenly life! but Devil take the life of reaping 
the fruits that another must eat. 

Well, your kind wishes will be gratified, as to 
seeing me when 1 make my Ayrshire visit. I 

cannot leave Mrs. B until her nine months' 

race is run, which may perhaps be in three or 
four weeks. She, too, seems determined to 
make me the patriarchal leader of a band. How- 
ever, if Heaven will be so obliging as let me 
have them on the proportion of three boys to 
one girl, I shall be so much the more pleased. 
I hope, if I am spared with them, to show a set 
of boys that will do honour to my cares and 
name ; but I am not equal to the tas"k of rearing 
girls. Besides, I am poor ; a girl should always 
have a fortune. Apropos, your little godson is 
thriving charmingly, but is a very devil. He, 
though two years younger, has completely mas- 
tered his brother. Robert is indeed the mildest, 
gentlest creature I ever saw. He has a most 
surprising memory, and is quite the pride of his 
schoolmaster. 

You know how readily we get into prattle 
upon a subject dear to our heart: you can ex- 
cuse it. God bless you and yours ' 



TO 21RS. DUXLOP. 

SUPPOSED TO HAVE BEEX WRITTEN OX THE DEATH 
OF MRS. HEXRIE, HER DAUGHTER. 

1 nAD been from home, and did not receive your 
letter until my return the other day. What 
shall I say to comfort you, my much-valued, 
much-afflicted friend! I can but grieve with 
you; consolation I have none to offer, except 
that which religion holds out to the children of 
affliction— children of affliction! — how just the 
expression! and like every other family, they 
have matters among them which they hear, see, 
and feel in a serious, all-important manner, of 
which the world has not, nor cares to have, any 



* This much-lamented lady was gone to.' the 
south of France with her infant son. where she 
died soon after " 



172 



BURKS' POETICAL WORKS, 



idea. The -world looks indifferently on. makes 
the passing remark, and proceeds to the next 
novel occurrence. 

Alas, madam ! who would wish for many- 
years? What is it but to drag on existence 
until our joys gradually expire and leave us in 
a night of misery ; like the gloom which blots 
out the stars one by one, from the face of flight, 
and leaves us, without a ray of comfort in the 
howling waste ! 

I am interrupted, and must leave off. You 
Khali hear from me again. 



TO MRS. DtJNLOP. 

Dumfries, Gth December. 1702. 
1 shall he in Ayrshire* I think, next week; and, 
if at all possible, I shall certainly, my niiieh- 
esteemed friend, have the pleasure of visiting 
at Dunlop House. 

Alas, madam! how seldom do we meet in this 
world, that we have reason lo congratulate our- 
selves on accessions of happiness! I have not 
passed half the ordinary term of an old man's 
life, and yet I scarcely look over the obituary of 
a newspaper, that 1 do not sec some names that 
I have known, and which I, and other acquain- 
tances, little thought to meet with there so soon. 
Every other instance of the mortality of our 
kind makes us caiit an anxious look into the 
dreadful abyss of uncertainty, and shudder with 
apprehensions forour own fate. But of how dif- 
ferent an importance are the lives of different 
individuals? Nay. of what importance is one 
period of the same life, more than another? A 
few years ago, I could have lain down in the 
dust, "careless of the voice of the morning:" 
and now not a few, and these most helpless in- 
dividuals, would, on losing me and my exertions. 
lose both my "staff and shield." II y the way. 
these helpless ones have lately got an addition, 
Mrs. II. having given me a tine -ill since 1 wrote 
you. There is a charming passage in Thomson's 
•• Edward and Eleanora. 

"The valiant, in himself, what can he Buffer— 
Or what need he regard his single woes!" &C. 

As I am got in the way of quotations, I shall 
give you another from the same piece, peculiarly, 
alas! too peculiarly apposite, my dear madam, 
to your present frame of mind : 
'■Who so unworthy but may proudly deck him, 
With his fair-weather virtue, that exults 
Glad o'er the summer main? the tempest comes, 
The rough winds rage aloud; when from the 

helm 
This virtue shrinks, and in a corner lies, 
Lamenting— Heaven-! if privileged l'roiu trial, 
How cheap a thing were virtue!'' 

I do not remember to have heard you mention 
Thomson's dramas. I pick up favourite quota- 
tions, and store them in my mand as ready 
armour, offensive, or defensive, amid the 
struggle of this turbulent existence. Of these is 
One, a very favourite one, from his " Alfred." 

"Attach thee firmlv to the virtuous deeds 

And offices of life : to life itself, 

With all its vain and transient joys, sit loose." 

Probably they have quoted some of these to 
you formerly, as indeed when I write from the 
heart, I am "apt to be guilty of such repetitions. 
The compass of the heart, in the musical style of 
expression, is much more bounded than that of 
the imagination ; so the notes of the former are 
extremely apt to run into one another: but in 
return for the paucity of its compass, its few 
notes are much more sweet. I must still give 
you another quotation, which I am almost sure 



1 have given you before, hut I cannot resist the 
temptation. The subject is religion— speaking 
of its importance to mankind, the author says, 

'•'Tisthis, my friend, that streaks our morning 
bright," Arc. 

1 see you are in for double postage, so I shall 
e'en scribble out t'other sheet. We in this 
country here have many alarms of the reform- 
ing, or rather the republican spirit of your part 
of the kingdom. Indeed, Ave are a good deal in 
commotion ourselves. For me, I am a placeman, 
you know; a very humble one indeed, Heaven 
knows, but still so much so as to gag me. Wit at 
my private sentiments are, yon will find out 
without an interpreter. 

I have taken up the subject in another view : 
and the other day, for a pretty actress's benefit- 
night, I wrote an address, called " The Rights of 
Woman," to be spoken by Miss Fontenelle on 
her benefit-night. 

I shall have the honour of rcceivingyour criti- 
cisms in person at Dunlop. 



TO MISS BENSON, OF YORK. 
Madam.— 21st March, 1703. 

Among many things for which I envy those 
hale, long-lived old fellows before the flood, is 
this in particular, that when they met with any- 
body after their own heart, they had a charming 
long pjospect of man}-, many 'happy meetings 
with them in after-life. 

Now, in this short, stormv winter day of our 
fleeting existence, when vou now and then, in 
the Chapter of Accidents, meet an individual 
whose acquaintance is a real acquisition, there 
are all the probabilities against you, that you 
shall never meet with that valued character 
more. On the other hand, brief as the miserable 
being is, it Is none of the least of the miseries be- 
longing to it, that if there is any miscreant 
whom you hate, or creatine whom you despise, 
the ill run of the chances shall be so against you, 
that in the overtakings, turnings, and jostlings 
of life, pop. at some unlucky corner, eternally 
comes the wretch upon you. and will not allow 
your indignation or contempt a moment's re- 
pose. As I am a sturdy believer in the powers 
of darkness, i take those to be the doings of that 
old author of mischief, the devil. It is well 
known that he has some kind of short-hand way 
of taking down our thoughts, and I make no 
doubt that he is perfectly acquainted with my 

sentiments respecting Miss B : how much I 

admired her abilities and valued her worth, and 
how very fortunate I thought mvself in her 
acquaintance. For this last reason, my dear 
madam, I must entertain no hopes of the very 
great pleasure of meeting with vou again. 

Miss H tells me that she is sending a 

packet to vou. and I beg leave to send you the 
enclosed sonnet, though to tell yon the real truth, 
the sonnet is a mere pretence, that I may have 
the opportunity of declaring with how much 
resoectful esteem I have the honour to DO, &G. . 



TO MISS CRAIK. 

Madam, August, 179a 

Some rather unlooked-for accidents have pre- 
vented me doing myself the honour of a second 
visit to Arbiegland, as I was so hospitably in- 
vited, and so poshivelv meant to have done. — 
However. I shall hope to have that pleasure 
before the busy months of harvest begin. 

J enclose you two of my late pieces, as some 



COIIKESPOXDEXCE OF BURNS. 



173 



kind return for the pleasure I have received in 
perusing a certain MS. volume of poems in the 
possession of Captain Kiddel. To repay one 
with an old song, is a proverb, whose force you, 
madam, I know will not allow. What is said of 
illustrious descent is, I believe, equally true of a 
talent for poetry; none ever despised it who 
had pretensions of it. 

The fates and characters of the rhyming; tribe 
often employ my thoughts when I am disposed 
to be melancholy. There is not, among all the 
martyrologies that ever were penned, so rueful a 
narrative as the lives of the poets.— In the com- 
parative view of wretches, the criterion is not 
what they are doomed to suffer, but how they 
are formed to bear. Take a being of our kind, 
give him a stronger imagination and a more 
delicate sensibility, which between them will 
ever engender a more ungovernable set of pas- 
sions than are the usual lot of man ; implant in 
him an irresistible impulse to some idle vagary, 
such as, arranging with flowers in fantastical 
nosegays, tracing the grasshopper to his haunt 
by his chirping song, watching the frisks of the 
little minnows in the sunny pool, or hunting 
after the intrigues of butterflies— in short, send 
him adrift after some pursuit which shall 
eternally mislead him from the path of lucre, 
and yet curse him with a keener relish than any 
man living, for the pleasures that lucre can pur- 
chase ; lastly, fill up the measure of his woes by 
bestowing on him a spurning sense of his own 
dignity, and youhave created a wight nearly as 
miserable as a poet. To you, madam, I need not 
recount the fairy pleasures the muse bestows to 
counterbalance this catalogue of evils. Bewitch- 
ing poetry is like bewitching woman ; she has in 
all ages been accused of misleading mankind 
from the counsels of wisdom and the paths of 
prudence, involving them in difficulties, baiting 
them with poverty, branding them with infamy, 
and plunging them in the whirling vortex of 
ruin ; yet where is the man but must own that 
all happiness on earth is not worthy the name- 
that even the holy hermit's solitary prospect of 
paradisaical bliss is but the glitter of a northern 
sun, rising over a frozen region, compared with 
the many pleasures, the nameless raptures that 
we owe to the lovely Queen of the heart of 
Man ! 



TO JOHN M-MUBDO, ESQ. 
Sir,— December ,1793. 

It is said that Ave take the greatest liberties 
with our greatest friends, and I pay myself a 
very high compliment in the manner in which I 
am going to apply the remark. I have owed you 
money longer than ever I owed it to any man— 
Here is Ker's account, and here are six guineas ; 
and now, I don't owe a shilling to man— or 
woman either. But for these damned, dirty, 
dog's-ear'd-like pages,* I had done myself the 
honour to have waited on you long ago. Inde- 
pendent of the obligations your hospitality has 
laid me under, the consciousness of your 
superiority in the rank of man and gentleman, 
of itself was fully as much as I could ever make 
head against; but to owe you money, too, was 
more than I could face. 

I think I once mentioned something of a col- 
lection of Scotch songs I have for some vears 
been making: I send you a perusal of what I 
have got together. I could not convenientlv 
, spare them above five or six days, and rive or 
six glances of them will probablv more than 
suffice you. A very few of them 'are my own. 
When vou are tired of them, please leave them 
with Mr. Clint, of the "King's Arms." There is 



> Scottish bank-notes, 



not another copy of the collection in the world ; 
and I shall be sorry that anv unfortunate negli- 
gence should deprive me ofwhat has cost me a 
good deal of pains. 



no. cv. 
TO MRS. KIDDEL. 



I am thinking to send my address to some perio- 
dical publication, but it has not got your sanction, 
so pray look over it. 

As to the Tuesday's play, let me beg of you, 
my dear madam, let me beg of you to give us, 

II The Wonder, a Woman keeps a Secret;" to 
which please add, " The Spoiled Child"— you will 
highly oblige me by so doing 

Ah. what an enviable creature you are! there 
now, this cursed gloomy blue-devil day, you are 
going to a party of choice spirits— 

"To play the shapes 
Of frollic fancy, and incessant form 
Those rapid pictures, that assembled train 
Of fleet ideas, never join'd before, 
Where lively Avit excites to gay surprise ; 
Or folly, painting humour, grave himself, 
Calls laughter forth, deep-shaking every nerve. 
But as yon rejoice with them that do rejoice, 
do also remember to Aveep with them that weep, 
and pity your melancholy friend. 



no. cvi. 
TO A LAD Y. 

in favour of a plater's benefit. 
Madam,— 



You were so very good as to promise to honour 
my friend with -four presence on his benefit- 
night. That night is fixed for Friday first : the 
play a most instructing one ! " The Way to Keep 
Him." I have the pleasure to know Mr. G. well. 
His merit as an actor is generally acknowleged. 
He has a genius and worth which Avould do 
honour to patronage : he is a poor and modest 
man ; claims which, from their very silence, 
have the more forcible power on the generous 
heart. Alas! for pity! that, from the indolence 
of those who have the good things of this life in 
gift, too often does brazen-fronted importunity 
snatch that boon, the rightful due of retiring, 
humble want ! Of allthe qualities Ave assign to the 
author and director of Nature, by far the most 
enviable is— to be able "To wipe away all tears 
from all eyes." O what insignificant, sordid 
Avretches are they, however chance may have 
loaded them Avith wealth, Avho go to their graves, 
to their magnificent mausoleums, Avith hardly 
the consciousness of having made one poor 
honest he-art hanpy ! 

But I crave your pardon, madam; I came to 
beg, not to preach. 



EXTRACT OF A LETTER. 

TO ME. ■ . 

1794. 
I am extremely obliged to. you for your kind 
mention of my interests, in a letter which Mr. 

S • showed me. At present, my situation in 

life must be in a great measure stationary, at 
least for two or three years. The statement is 
this— lam on the supervisor's list: and as we 
come on there by precedency, in two or three 
years I shall be at the head of that list, and be 
appointed of course— -then a Friend might be Q? 



BURSTS' POETICAL WORKS. 



service to me in getting me into a place of the 
kingdom which I like. A supervisors income 
varies from about one hundred and twenty to two 
hundred a-year ; but the business is an incessant 
drudgery, and would be nearly a complete bar 
to every species of literary pursuit, The moment 
I am appointed supervisor inthe common routine, 
I may be nominated on the collector's list ; and 
this is always a business purely of political 
patronage. A collectorship varies much, from 
better than two hundred a-year to near a thou- 
sand. They also come forward by precedency on 
the list, and have, besides a handsome income, a 
life of complete leisure. A life of literary leisure, 
with a decent competence, is the summit of my 
wishes. It would be the prudish affectation of 
silly pride in me, to say that I do not need, or 
would not be indebted to a political friend; at 
the same time, sir, 1 by no means lay my affairs 
before you thus, to hook my dependent situa- 
tion on your benevolence. If, in my progress of 
life, an opening should occur where the good 
offices of a gentleman of your public character 
and political consequence might bring me for- 
ward, I will petition your goodness with the 
same frankness and sinceritvas I now do myself 
the honour to subscribe myself, &c. 



no. cvm. 

TO MRS. RIDDEL. 
DEAE Madam,— 
T meant to have called on von yesternight, but 
as I edged up to your box-door, the first object 
which greeted my view was one of those lobstcr- 
coated puppies, sitting like another dragon 
guarding the Hesperian fruit. On the conditions 
and capitulations you m> obliging offer. I shall 
certainly make my weather-beaten rustic phiz 
part of your box-furniture on Tuesday, when we 
may arrange the business of the visit. 

Among the profusion of idle compliments which 
insidious craft, or unmeaning follv, incessantly 
offers at your shrine— a shrine, how far exalted 
above such adoration— permit me, were it but 
for rarity's sake, to pay von the honest tribute 
of my heart, and an independent mind; and to 
assure you, that I am. thou most amiable, and 
most accomplished of thy sex, with the most re- 
spectful esteem, and. regard, thine. Arc. 



TO THE SAME. 
I will wait on you, my ever-valued friend: but 
whether in the morning, I am not sure. Sunday 
closes a period of our curst revenue business, 
and may probably fceep me employed with un- 
pen until noon. Fine employment for a poet's 
pen! there is a species of the human genius that 
I call the gin-horse class; what enviable dogs 
they are. Round, and round, and round they 
go,— Mnndell'S ox that drives his cotton-mill is 
their exact prototype— without an idea beyond 
their circle: fat, sleek, stupid, patient, quiet, 
and contented; while here I sit altogether Kb- 

vemberish, a d melange of fretfulness and 

melancholy : not enough of the one to rouse me 
to passion, nor of the other to repose me in 
torpor; my soul flouncing and fluttering round 
her tenement, like a wild finch, caught amid the 
horrors of winter, and newly thrust into a cage. 
Well, I am persuaded that it was of me the 
Hebrew sage prephesied, when he foretold— 
"And behold, on whatsoever this man doth set 
his heart, it shall not prosper." If my resent- 
ment is awakened, it is sure to be where it dare 
not squeak: and if— 



svisdomand bliss be more frequent 



NO. CX. 
TO THE SAME. 

I have this moment got the song from S , and 

I am sorry to see that he has spoilt it a good 
deal. It shall be a lesson to me how 1 lend hiiu 
anything again. 

I have sent you " Werter," truly happy to 
have any the smallest opportunity of obliging 
you. 
Tis true, madam, I saw you once since I was 

at W ; and that once froze the very life-blood 

of my heart. Your reception of me was such, 
that a wretch meeting the eye of his jndge, 
about to pronounce sentence of death on him, 
could 011I3 7 have envied my feelings and situa- 
tion. But I hate the theme, and never more 
shall write or speak on it- 
One thing I shall proudly say, that I can pay 
Mrs. a higher tribute of esteem, and appre- 
ciate her amiable worth more truly, than any 
man whom 1 have seen approach her. 



TO THE SAME. 

1 have often told you, my dear friend, that you 
bad a spice of caprice in your composition, 
and you have as often disavowed it, even per- 
naps while your opinions were, at the moment, 
irrefragably proving it. Could anything estrange 
me from a friend such as you '!— No ! To-morrow 
I shall have the honour of waiting upon you. 

Farewell, thou first of friends, and most ac- 
complished of women; even with all thy little 
caprices ! 

NO. CXII. 

TO THE SAME. 

Madam,— 

I return vonr common-place book. T have 
perused it with much pleasure, and would have 
continued my criticisms, but as it seems the 
critic has forfeited your esteem, his strictures 
must lose their value. 

• If it is true that " offences come onlv from the 
heart," before you I am guiltless. To admire, 
esteem, and prize you, as the most accomplished 
of women, and the first of friends— if these are 
crimes, I am the most offending thing alive. 

In a face where I used to meet the kind com- 
placency of friendly confidence, now to find cold 
neglect and contemptuous scorn— is a wrench 
that my heart can ill bear. It is, however, some 
kind of miserable good luck; that while de-haut- 
en-bas rigourmay depress an unoffending wretch 
to the ground, it has a tendency to ronse. a stub- 
born something in his bosom, which, though it 
cannot heal the wounds of his soul, is at least an 
opiate to blunt their poignancy. 

With the profoundest respect for your abilities : 
the most sincere esteem, and ardent regard for 
your gentle heart and amiable manners; and 
the most fervent wish and prayer for your wel- 
fare, peace, and bliss, I have the honour to be, 
madam, your most devoted humble servant. 



TO JOHN SYME, ESQ. 
YOU know that among other high dignities, you 
have the honour to be ray supreme court of 
critical judicature, from which there is no ap- • 
peal. I enclose you a song which I composed 
since I saw yon, and I am going to give you the 
history of if. Do you know that among much 
that I admire in tlie characters andmanuer.> of 
ihose great folk^ whom I have now the honour 
to call my acquaintances, the family. th< re 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



is nothing charms me more than Mr. O.'s uncon- 
cealable attachment to that incomparable 
woman. Did yon ever, my dear Syme, meet 
with a man who owed more to the Divine Giver 
of all good things, than Mr. O. ? A fine fortune ; 
a pleasing exterior ; self-evident amiable dispo- 
sitions, and ingenious upright mind, and that in- 
formed too, much beyond the usual run of young 
fellows of his rank and fortune ; and to all this, 
such a woman!— but of her 1 shall say nothing 
at all, in despair of saying anything adequate : 
in my song, I have endeavoured to do justice to 
what would be his feelings on seeing, in the 
scene I have drawn, the habitation of his Lucy. 
As I am a good deal pleased with my perform- 
ance, I in my first fervour thought of sending it 

to Mrs. O ; but on second thoughts, perhaps 

what I offer as the honest incense of genuine 
respect might, from the well-known character of 
poverty and poetry, be construed into some mo- 
dification or other of that servility which my soul 
abhors.* 



TO MISS . 

Madam,— 

Nothing short of a kind of absolute necessity 
could have made me trouble you with this letter. 
Except my ardent and just esteem for your 
sense, taste, and worth, every sentiment arising 
in my breast, as I put pen to paper to you, is 
painful. The scenes 1 have past with the friend 
of my soul, and his amiable connexions ! The 
wrench at my heart to think that he is gone, for 
ever gone from me, never more to meet in the 
wanderings of a weary world ; and the cutting 
reflection of all, that I had most unfortunately, 
though most undeservediy, lost the confidence 
of that soul of worth, ere it took its flight ! 

These, madam, are sensations of no ordinary 
anguish.— However, you, also, may be offended 
with some imputed improprieties of mine ; sensi- 
bility you know I possess, and sincerity none 
will deny me. 

To oppose those prejudices which have been 
raised against me is not the business of this 
letter. Indeed, it is a warfare I know not how 
to wage. The powers of positive vice I can in 
some degree calculate, and against direct male- 
volence I can be on my guard; but who can 
estimate the fatuity of giddy caprice, or ward off 
the unthinking mischief of precipitate folly? 

I have a favour to request of you, madam, and 
of your sister, Mrs. — -, through your means. 
You know, that at the wish of my late friend. 
I made a collection of all my trifles in verse 
which I had ever written. 'They are many of 
them local, some of them puerile, and silly, and 
all of them unfit for the public eye. As I have 
some little fame at stake, a fame that I trust 
may live, when the hate of those who "watch 
for my halting," and the contumelious sneer of 
those whom accident has made my superiors, 
will, with themselves, be gone to the regions of 
oblivion ; I am uneasy now for the fate of those 

manuscripts. — Will Mrs. have the goodness 

to destroy them or return them to me ? As a 
pledge of friendship they were bestowed; and 
that circumstance, indeed, was all their merit. 
Most unhappily for me, that merit thev no 
longer possess ; and I hope that Mrs. "s good- 
ness, which I well know, and ever will revere, 
will not refuse this favour to a man whom she 
once held in some degree of estimation. 

With the sincerest esteem, I have the honour 
to be, madam, <fcc. 



* The song enclosed was the one becinnino- 
with 

" O wat ye wha's in yon town." 



no. cxv. 
TO MR. CUNNINGHAM. 

25th February, 1794. 
Canst thou minister to a mind diseased? Canst 
thou speak peace and rest to a soul tossed on a 
sea of troubles, without one friendly star to 
guide her course, and dreading that the next 
surge may overwhelm her ? Canst thou give to 
a fame, tremblingly alive to the tortures of 
suspense, the stability and hardihood of the 
rock that braves the blast ? If thou canst not 
do the least of these, why wouldst thou disturb 
me in my miseries, with thy inquiries after 
me? 



For these two months I have not been able to 
lift a pen. My constitution and frame were, ab 
origine, blasted with a deep incurable taint of 
hypochondria, which poisons my existence. Of 
la'te, a number of domestic vexations, and some 

pecuniary share in the ruin of these times ; 

losses, which, though trifling, were yet what I 
couid ill bear, have so irritated me, that my 
feelings at times could only be envied by a re- 
probate spirit, listening to the sentence that 
dooms it to perdition. 

Are you deep in the language of consolation ? 
I have exhausted in reflection every topic of 
comfort. A heart at ease would have been 
charmed with my sentiments and reasonings; 
but as to myself, I was like Judas Iscariot 
preaching the gospel ; he might melt and mould 
the hearts of those around him, but his own 
kept its native incorrigibility. 

Still there are two great pillars that bear us 
up, amid the wreck of misfortune and misery. 
The one is composed of the different modifica- 
tions of a certain noble, stubborn something in 
man, known by the names of courage, fortitude, 
magnanimity. The other is made up of those 
feelings and sentiments, which, however, the 
sceptic may deny them, or the enthusiast dis- 
figure them, are yet, I am convinced, original 
and component parts of the human soul; those 
senses of the mind, if I may be allowed the ex- 
pression, which connect us with, and link us to, 
those awful obscure realities— and all-powerful 
and equally benificent God; and a world to 
come, beyond death and the grave. The first 
gives the nerve of combat, while a ray of hope 
beams on the field;— the last pours the balm of 
comfort into the wounds which time can never 
cure. 

I do not remember, my dear Cunningham, 
that you and I ever talked on the subject of re- 
ligion at all. I know some who laugh at it, as 
the trick of the crafty few, to lead the undis- 
cerning many; or at most as an uncertain 
obscurity, Avhich mankind can never know any- 
thing of, and with which they are fools if they 
give themselves much to do. Nor would I 
quarrel with a man for his irreligion, any more 
than I would for his want of a musical ear. I 
would regret that he was shut out from what, 
to me and to others, were such superlative 
sources of enjoyment. It is in this point of view, 
and for this reason, that I will deeply imbue the 
mind of every child of mine with religion. If 
my son should happen to be a man of feeling, 
sentiment, and taste, I shall thus add largely to 
his enjoyments. - Let me flatter myself that this 
sweet little fellow, who is now running about my 
desk, will be a man of a melting, ardent, glowing 
heart; and an imagination, delighted with the 
painter, and rapt with the poet. Let me figure 
him, wandering out in a sweet evening, to inhale 
the balmy gales, and enjoying the growing 
luxuriance of the spring; himself the while in 
the blooming youth of life. He looks abroad on 
all nature, and through nature up to nature's 
God. His soul, by swift, delighting degrees. 



BURETS' POETICAL WORKS. 



is wrapt above this "sublunary sphere, until he 
can be silent no longer, and bursts out into the 
glorious enthusiasm of Thomson.— 

"These, as they change, Almighty Father, 

these 
Are but the varied God.— The rolling year 
Is full of thee." 

And so on, in all the spirit and ardour of that 
charming hymn. 

These are' no ideal pleasures; thev are real 
delights, and 1 ask what of the delights among 
the sons of men are superior, not to say equal, 
to theaiV And they have this precious, vast 
addition, that conscious virtue stamps them for 
her own ; and lays hold on them to bring herself 
into the presence of a witnessing, judging, and 
approving God. 



no cxvi. 
TO MRS. RIDDEL. 



Madam,— 
1 dare say this is the first epistle yon ever 
received from this nether world. I write to you 
from the regions of Hell, amid the horrors of 
the damned. The time and manner of my 
leaving your earth I do not exactly know; as 'l 
took my departure in the heat of a fever of in- 
toxication, contracted at your too hospitable 
mansion; bat on my arrival here I was fairly 
tried and sentenced to endure the purgatorial 
tortures of this infernal confine forth 
ninety-nine years, eleven months, and twenty- 
nine days; and all on account of the impropriety 
of my conduct yesternight under your root. 
Here am I, laid on a bed of pitiless furze, with 
my aching head reclining on a pillow of ever- 
piercing thorn, while an infernal tormentor. 
wrinkled and old, and cruel, his name. I think. 
is Recollection, with a whip of scorpion-, forbids 
peace or rest to approach me, and keeps anguish 
eternally awake. Still, madam, if I could in any 
mcasur-c be reinstated in the -o.>d «,, iniun of the 
fair circle, whom my conduct last night so much 
injured, I think it would be an alleviation to my 
torments. For this reason I trouble you with 
this letter. To the men of the company I will 
make no apology.— "Your husband, who insisted 
on my drinking more than I chose, has no right 
to blame me; and the other gentlemen were 
partakers of my guilt. But to you. madam, I 
have much to apologise. Your good opinion I 
valued as one of the greatest acquisitions I had 
made on earth, and I was truly a beast to for- 
feit it. There was a Miss I . toi >. a woman of 

fine sense, gentle and unassuming manners— do 
make, on my part, a miserable d— d wretch's 

best apology to her. A Mrs. G , a charming 

woman, did me the honour to be prejudiced in 
my favour; this makes me hope that I hav ■ not 
outraged her bevond all forgiveness.— To all the 
other ladies, please present mv hum!.: 
trition for my conduct, and my petition for their 
gracious pardon. O all ye powers of decency 
and decorum! whisper to them that my errors, 
though great, were involuntarv— that ah intoxi- 
cated man is the vilest of beasts— that it was 
not in my nature to be brutal to any one— that 
to be rude to a woman, when in mv senses, was 
impossible with me— but— 



Regret ! Remorse, Shame ! ye three hell- 
hounds that ever do? mv steps and bay at my 
heels, spare me! spare me! 

Forgive the offences, and pity the perdition of, 
madam, your humble slave. 



no. cxvii. 

TO MRS. DUNLOP. 

loth December. 1793. 
My Dear Friend,— 

As I am in a complete Decemberish humour. 
gloomy, sullen, stupid, as even the deity of 
Dulness herself could wish, I shall now drawl 
out. a heavy letter with a number of heavier 
apologies, for my late silence. Only one I shall 
mention, because I know you will sympathize in 
it : these four months, a sweet little girl, my 
youngest child, has been so ill, that every day '.a 
week or less threatened to terminate her 
existence. There had much need be many 
pleasures annexed to the states of husband and 
father, for God knows, they have many peculiar 
cares. I cannot describe to you the anxious, 
sleepless hours these ties frequently give me. 
I see a train of helpless little foiks : me and my 
exertions all tlvir stay; and on what a brittle 
thread does the life of man hang ! If I am nipt 
off at the command of fate; even in all the 
vigour of manhood as I am, such things happen 
every day— gracious God! what would become 
of my little flock! 'Tis here that I envy your 
people of fortune.— A father on Ins deathbed, 
taking an everlasting leave of his children, has, 
indeed, woe enough; but the man of competent 
fortune leaves his sons and daughters inde- 
pendency and friends; while I— but 1 shall run 
distracted if 1 think any longer on the subject! 

To have talking of the matter so gravely, I 
shall sing with the old Scots ballad— 

'• <> that I bad ne'er been married, 

I won] I never had na care, 
N< w I've gotten wife and bairns,- 

They cry, crowdie, overman-. 

Crowdie ! ance ; crowdie! twice; 
Crowdie ! three times in a day: 
An ve crowdie ony mair, 

. crowdie a' my meal away." 



December 24 t/i. 
"We have had a brilliant theatre here this 
season; only, as all other business has, it ex- 
a stagnation of trade from the epi- 
demical complaint of the country, vant of cash. 
I mention our theatre niereiy to lug in an occa- 
sional "Address," which I wrote for Miss Fon- 
tenelle on her benefit-night. Dec. 4, 17'J5, at the 
Theatre, Dumfries. 



'loth. Christmas Morning. 
Tins, my mueli-lcvcd friend, is a morning of 
wishes: accept mine— so Heaven hear me as 
they are sincere ! that blessings may attend your 
steps, and affliction know you not! In" the 
charming words of my favourite author, "The 
Man of Feeling," "May the great spirit bear up 
the weight of thy gray, hairs; and blunt the 
arrow that brings them rest!"' 

Now that I talk of authors, how do you like 
Cowper? Is not the '"Task" a glorious poem? 
The religion of the "Task," bating in a few 
scraps of Caivinistic divjnitv. is the religion of 
God and is aturc ■ the religion thats exalts, that 
ennobles man. Were not yon to send me your 
" Zeluco" in return for mine ? Tell me how you 
like my marks and notes through the book. I 
would hot give a farthing for a book, unless I 
were at liberty to blot it with my criticisms. 

I have lately collected, for a friend's perusal, 
all my letters; 1 mean those which I first 
sketched, in a rough draught, and afterwards 
wrote out fair. On looking over some old musty 
papers, which from time to time I had parcelled 
by, as trash that were scare worth preserving, 
and which vet at the same time I did not care 
to destroy, I discovered many of those rude 



CORRESPONDENCE OF BURNS. 



177 



sketches, and have written, and am writing 
them out, in a bound MS. for my friend's library. 

As I wrote always to you the rhapsody of the 
moment, 1 cannot find a single scroll to you, ex- 
cept one, about the commencement of our ac- 
quaintance. If there were any possible convey- 
ance, I would send you a perusal of my book. 



TO MRS. DUXLOP, IX LOXDOX. 

Dumfries, 20th December, 1793. 
I have been prodigiously disappointed in this 
London journey of yours. In the first place, 
when your last to me reached Dumfries. I was 
in the country, and did not return until too late 
to answer your letter; in the next place, I 
thought you would certainly take this route; 
and now I know not what is become of you, or 
whether this may reach you at all. God grant 
that it may find you and yours in prospering 
health and good spirits. Do let me hear from 
you the soonest possible. 

As I hope to get a frank from my friend Cap- 
tain Miller, I shall, every leisure hour, take up 
the pen, and gossip away whatever comes first, 
prose or poesy, sermon or song. In this last 
article, I have abounded of late. I have often 
mentioned to you a superb publication of Scot- 
tish songs which is making its appearance in 
your great metropolis, and where I have the 
honour to preside over the Scottish verse, as no 
less a personage than Peter Pindar does over 
the English. 1 wrote the followingfor a favourite 



December, 29. 
Since I began this letter I have been appointed 
to act in capacity as supervisor here ; and I 
assureyou, what with the load of business, and 
what with that business being new to me, 1 
could scarcely have commanded ten minutes to 
have spoken to you, had you been in town, much 
less to have written you an epistle. This ap- 
pointment is only temporary, and during the ill- 
ness of the present incumbent; but I look for- 
ward to an early period when I shall be ap- 
pointed in full form: a consummation devontlv 
to be wished ! My political sins seem to be for- 
given me. 



This is the season (Xew year's-day is now my 
date) of wishing; and mine are most fervently 
offered up for yon ! May life to you be a positive 
blessing while it lasts, for your own sake, and 
for the sake of the rest of your friends ! What a 
transient business is life ! Very lately I was a 
boy: but t'other dav I was a young man; and I 
already begin to feel the rigid fibre and stiffen- 
ing joints of old age coming fast o'er my frame. 
With all my follies of youth, and, I fear, a few 
vices of manhood, still 1 congratulate mvself on 
having had, in early davs, religion strongly im- 
pressed on my mind. I nave nothing to say to 
any one as to which sect he belongs to, or what 
creed lie believes ; but I look on the man who is 
firmly persuaded of infinite wisdom and good- 
ness, superintending and directing every cir- 
cumstance that can happen in his lot— I fc-li'citni ■ • 
such a man as having a solid foundation for his 
mental enjoyment : a firm prop and sure stay, 
in the hour of difficulty, trouble, and distress ; 
and a never-failing anchor of hope, when he 
looks beyond the grave. 

January 12th. 
lou will have seen our worthy and ingenious 
friend, the doctor, long ere this. I hope" he is 
well, and beg to be remembered to him. I have 
just been reading over again, I dare say for the 



hundred and fiftieth time, his "View of Society 
and Manners," and still read it with delight. His 
humour is perfectly original— it is neither the 
humour of Addison, nor Swift, nor Sterne, nor 
of anybody but Dr. Moore. By-the-bye, you 
have deprived me of "Zeluco;" remember that, 
when you are disposed to rake up the sins of my 
neglect from among the ashes of laziness. 

He has paid me a pretty compliment, by 
quoting me in his last publication* 



no. cxix. 
TO MRS. DUXLOP. 

21st January, 179(1. 
These many months you have been two" packets 
in my debt— what sin of ignorance I have com- 
mitted against so highly valued a friend I am 
utterly at a loss to guess. Alas ! madam, ill can 
I afford at this time to be deprived of any of 
the small remnant of my pleasures. I have 
lately drunk deep of the cup of affliction.— The 
autumn robbed me of my only daughter and 
darling child, and that at a distance, too, and so 
rapidly, as to put it out of my power to pay the 
last duties to her. 1 had scarcely begun to re- 
cover from the shock, when I became myself the 
victim of a most severe rheumatic fever, and 
long the die spun doubtful, until after many 
weeks of a sick bed, it seems to have turned up 
life, and I am beginning to crawl across my 
room, and once indeed have been before my own 
door in the street. 

When pleasure fascinates the mental sight, 

Affliction purifies the visual ray. 
Religion hails the drear; the untried night, 

That shuts, for ever shuts ! life's doubtful day! 



xo. cxx. 
TO MRS RIDDEL. 

WHO HAD DESIRED HI5I TO GO TO THE BIETn- 
DAT ASSEMBLY ON THAT DAY TO SHOW HIS 
LOYALTY. 

4th June. 1796. 
I am in such miserable health as to be utterly 
incapable of showing my loyalty in any way. 
Racked as I am with rheumatisms, I meet every 
face with a greeting, like that of Balak to Balaam 
— "Come curse me, Jacob, and defy me, Israel !'" 
So say I— come curse me that east wind; and 
come defy me the north ! would you have me, 
in such circumstances, to copy you out a love- 



I may perhaps see you on Saturday, but I will 
not be* at the ball.— Why should IV '-man de- 
lights me not, nor woman either." Can you 
supply me with the song "let us all he unhappy 
together?"— do if you can, and oblige leouurre 
miserable. K. B. 

XO. CXXI. 

TO MR. CTJXXIXGHAM. 
Brow, Sea-BMhing Quarters, 1th July, 179G. 
My Dear Mr. Cunningham,— 
T received yours here this moment, and am 
highly flattered with the approbation of the 
literary circle you mention ; a literary circle in- 
ferior to none 'in the two kingdoms. Alas! my 
friend, I fear the voice of the bard will soon be 
heard among you no more ? for these eight or 
ten months I have been ailing, sometimes bed- 
fast and sometimes not; but these last three 



* Edward. 



IfB 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS 1 , 



months 1 have been tortured with an excru- 
ciating rheumatism, which has reduced me to 
nearly the last stage. You actually would not 
know me if you saw me. Pale, emaciated, and 
so feeble, as occasionally to need help from my 
chair— my spirits fled! fled !— but 1 can no more 
on the subject— only my medical folks tell me 
that my last and only chance is bathing and 
country quarters, and riding. The deuce of the 
matter is this: when an excise man is off duty 
his salary is reduced to £35 intead of £50.— What 
way, in the name of thrift, shall 1 maintain my- 
self and keep a horse in country quarters— with 
a wife and five children at home, on £.35 'i I men- 
tion this, because I had intended to beg vonr ut- 
most interest, and that of all the friends you can 
muster, to move our Commissioners of Excise to 
grant me the full salary. 1 dare say yon know 
them all personally. If they do not grant it me. 
1 must lay my account with an exit truly enpoe/e 
—if I die not of disease, 1 must perish with 
Ji unger. 

I have sent you one of the songs: the other 
my memory does not serve me with, and I have 
no copy here ; but I shall be at home soon, when 
I will send it 3-011. Apropos to being at home. 
Mrs. Burns threatens in a week or two to add 
one more to my paternal charge, which, if of the 
right gender, f intend shall be introduced to the 
'■!'■ di'M-'iiatinn of Alexander Cunning- 
ham Burns; my last was James Glencairn: so 
you can have no objection to the company of 
nobility. Farewell. 



NO. < XXII. 

TO -MRS. BURNS. 

Broic, Thursday. 

My Dearest Love,— 

I delayed writing until I could tell you what 

-bathing was likelv toproducc. It would 

be injustice to deny that it has eased my pains. 

and I think has strengthened me ; but my appe- 



tite is still extremely bad. No flesh nor fish can 
I swallow; porridgeand milk are theonlvthini; ; 
I can taste. I am very happy to hear.'bv Miss 
Jessie Lewars, that you are well. My very best 
and kindest compliments to her and all the 
children. I will see you on Sunday. Your affec- 
tionate husband, R. B. 



NO. CXXIII. 
TO MRS. DUNLOP. 
Madam,— 12th July, I 'Oil 

I have written to you so often, without receiv 
ing any answer, that I would not trouble yon 
again, but for the circumstances in which Iain. 
An illness which has long hung about me. in all 
probability will speedily send me beyond that 
bourne whence no traveller returns. Your 
friendship, with which yon honoured me, was a 
friendship dearest to my soul. Your conversa- 
tion, and especially your correspondence, were 
once highly entertaining and instructive. AVith 
what pleasure did I use to break up the seal! 
The remembrance yet adds one pulse more to my 
palpitating heart. Farewell ! ! ! 

The above is supposed to be the last production 
of Robert Burns, who died on the L'lsi of the 
month, nine days afterward-. He had. however, 
the pleasure of receiving a satisfactory explana- 
tion of his friend's silence, and an assurance of 
the continuance of her friendship to his widow 
and children; an assurance that has been amply 
fulfilled. 

It is probable that the greater part of her 
letters to him were destroyed by our bard about 
the time that this last letter was written.— He did 
not foresee that his own letters to her were to 
appear In print, nor conceive the disappointment. 
that will be felt, that a few of this excellent 
lady's have not served to enrich and adorn the 
collection. 



BURNS' CORRESPONDENCE WITH MR. GEORGE THOMSON. 



ME. THOMSON" TO ME. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Sept., 1792. 
Sir,— 

For some years past, I have, with a friend or 
two, employed many leisure hours in selecting 
and collating- the most favourite of our national 
melodies for publication. We have engaged 
Pleyel, the most agreeable composor living, to 
put"accompaniments to these, and also to com- 
pose an instrumental prelude and conclusion to 
each air, the better to tit them for concerts, both 
public and private. To render this work per- 
fect, we are desirous to have the poetry im- 
proved, wherever it seems unworthy of the 
music; and that it is so in many instances, is 
allowed by every one that is conversant with 
our musical collections. The editors of these 
seem in general to have depended on the music 
proving an excuse for the verses : and hence 
some charming melodies are united to mere 
nonsense and doggrel, while others are accommo- 
dated with rhymes so loose and indelicate as 
cannot be sung in decent company. To remove 
this reproach, would be an easy task to the 
author of "The Cotter's Saturday Night;" and, 
for the honour of Caledonia, I would fain hope 
he may be induced to take up the pen. If so, we 
shall be enabled to present the public with a 
collection infinitely more interesting than any 
tliat has yet appeared, and acceptable to all per- 
sons of taste, whether they wish for correct 
melodies, delicate accompaniments, or charac- 
teristic verses. —We will esteem your poetical 
assistance a particular favour, besides paying 
any reasonable price yon shall please to demand 
for it. Profit is quite a secondary consideration 
with us, and we are resolved to spare neither 
pains nor expense on the publication. Tell me 
frankly then whether you will devote your 
leisure to writing twenty or twenty-five songs, 
suited to the particular melodies, which I am 
prepared to send you. A few soncrs, exception- 
able only in some of their verses. 1 'will likewise 
submit to your consideration ; leaving it to you, 
either to mend these or make new songs in their 
stead. It is superfluous to assure yon that I 
have no intention to displace, anv of the sterling 
old songs ; those only will be removed that ap- 
dear quite silly, or absolutely indecent. Even 
these shall all be examined by Air. Burns, and if 
he is of opinion that any of them are deserving 
of the music in such cases, no divorce shall take 
place. 

Relying on the letter accompanying this, to be 
forgiven for the liberty 1 have taken in address- 
ing you. I am, with great esteem, sir, your most 
obedient humble servant, G. Tno3isox. 

NO. II. 

ME. BURNS TO ME. THOMSON. 

iTumfries, IGth September, 1792. 
Sir,— 
I have just this moment got your letter. As 
the reqnest yon make to me will positively add 
to my enjoyments in complying with it, l"shall | 



enter into your undertaking with all the small 
portion of abilities I have, strained to their ut- 
most exertion by the impulse of enthusiasm. 
Only, don't hurry me; "Deil tak the hind- 
most" is by no means the cri de querre of my 
muse. Will yon, as 1 am inferior to none of you 
in enthusiastic attachment to the poetry and 
music ot old Caledonia, and since you request it, 
have cheerfully promised my mite of assistance 
—will you let me have a list of your airs, with 
the first line of the printed verses yon intend for 
them, that I may have an opportunity of sug- 
gesting any alteration that may occur to me. 
You know 'tis in the way of my trade ; still leav- 
ing you, gentlemen, the mi toubted right of pub- 
lishers, to approve, or reject, at your pleasure, 
for your own publication. Apropos, if yon are 
for English verses, there is. on my part, an end 
of the matter. Whether in tbe simplicity of the 
ballad, or the pathos of the song, I can only hope 
to please myself in being allowed at least a 
sprinkling of our native tongue. English verses, 
particularly the works of Scotsmen, that have 
merit, are" certainly very eligible. "Tweed- 
side; Ahl the poor Shepherd's mournful fate; 
Ah! Chloris, could 1 now but sit,'' etc., you 
cannot mend; but such insipid stuff as "To 
Fanny fair, could I impart, ' Ac, usually set to 
" The Mill Mill O," is a disgrace to the collection 
in which it has already appeared, and would 
doubly disgrace a collection that will have the 
superior merit of yonrs. But more of this in the 
farther prosecution of the business, if I am 
called on for my strictures and amendments— I 
say, amendments ; for I will not alter except 
where J. myself, at least, think that I amend. 

As to any remuneration, you may think my 
songs either above or below price; for they 
shall absolutely be the one or the other. In the 
honest enthusiasm with which I embark in your 
undertaking, to alk of money, wages, fee, hire, 
&c, would be downright prosit ution of soul! A 
proof of each of the songs that I compose or 
amend, I shall receive as a favour. In the rustie 
phrase of the season, " Guid speed the wark !" 
I am, sir, your very humble servant, 

R. Burns. 

P.S.— I have some particular reason for wish- 
ing my interference to be known as little as pos- 
sible. 



no. in. 
MR. THOMSON TO ME. BUENS. 

Edinburgh. 13th October, 1792. 
Dear Sir,— ' 

I received, with much satisfaction, your plea- 
sant and obliging letter, and I return my 
warmest acknowledgments for the enthusiasm 
with which you have entered into our undertak- 
ing. We haVe now no doubt of being able to 
produce a collection highly deserving of public 
attention, in all respects. 

I agree with you in thinking English verses, 
that have merit, very eligible, wherever new 
verses ai'e necessary; because the English be- 
comes every year, niore and more, the language. 



180 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



of Scotland; bat if you mean that no English 
verses, except those by Scottish authors, ought 
to be admitted, I am half inclined to differ from 
you. I should consider it unpardonable, to sacri- 
fice one good song in the Scottish dialect to 
make room for English verses ; but if we can 
select a few excellent ones suited to the unpro- 
vided or ill-provided airs, would it not be the 
very bigotry of literafy patriotism to reject such, 
merely because the authors were born south of 
the Tweed? Our sweet air, "My Nannie Q," 
which in the collections is joined to the poorest 
stuff that Allan Ramsay ever wrote, beginning, 
l; While some for pleasure pawn their health," 
answers so finely to Dr. Percy's beautiful song, 
"O Nancy, wilt 'thou go with me?" that, one 
would think he wrote it on purpose for the air. 
However, it is not at all our wish to confine you 
to English verses : you shall freely be allowed a 
sprinkling of your 'native tongue, as you ele- 
gantly express it, and. moreover, we will 
patiently wait your own time. One thing only I 
beg— which is, that however say and sportive 
the muse may be. she may always be decent. 
Let her not write what beauty would blush to 
speak, nor wound that charming delicacy which 
forms the most precious dowry of our daughters. 
I do not conceive the song to be the most proper 
vehicle for witty and brilliant conceits: simpli- 
city, I believe, should be its prominent feature; 
but in some of our songs, the writers have con- 
founded simplicity with coarseness and vulga- 
rity; although between the one and the other, 
as l>i\ Bcattic will observes, there is as great a 
difference between a plain suit of clothes and a 
bundle of rags. The hnmoroos ballad, or pathetic 
complaint, is best suited to our art less melodies : 
and more interesting indeed in all songs than 
the most pointed wit, dazzling descriptions, and 
flowery fancies. 

With these trite observations, I send you 
eleven of tie- songs, fur which ir is my wish to 
substitute other-, of your writing. I shall soon 
transmit the rest, and at the same time, a pro- 
spectus of the whole collection; and you may 
believe we will receive any hints that you are so 
kind as to give for improvingthe work, with the 
greatest pleasure and thankful 

I remain, dear sir. 



ME. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

MY Dkau Sir.— 

Let me tell you. that you are too fastidious in 
youT ideas of songs and ballads. I own that 
vour criticisms are just: the songs you specify 
in your list have all but cue the faults you re- 
mark in them ; but who shall mend the matter'/ 
Who shall rise up and say— Go to. -I will make a 
better? Fm' instance, on reading over '-The 
Lea Rig." I immediately set about trying my 
hand on it. and. after all. could make nothing 
more of it than the following, which. Heaven 
knows, is poor enough. 

'■ When o'er the hill the eastern star, &c." 

Your observation as to the aptitude of Dr. 
Percy's ballad to the air -Nannie " is just. Ir 
is. besides, perhaps the most beautiful ballad in 
the English language But let me remark to 
von. that in the sentiment and stvle of our Scot- 
tish airs, there is a pastoral simplicity, a some- 
thfng that one may call the Doric style and dia- 
lect of vocal music, to which a dash of our 
native tongue and manners is particularly, nay. 
peculiarly, apposite. For this reason, and, upon 
my honour, for this reason alone, I am of 
opinion (but as I told yon before, my opinion is 
vours, freely yours, to' approve or reject, as you 
please) that my ballad of |" Nannie O" might 
perhaps do for"oue set of verses to the tune. 



Now don't let it enter into your head that yon 
are under any necessity of taking my verses. 
I have long ago made up my mind as to" my own 
reputation in the business of authorship; and 
have nothing to be pleased or offended at, in 
your adoption or rejection of my verses. Though 
you should reject one half of what I give you, I 
shall be pleased with your adopting the. other 
half, and shall continue to serve you with the 
same assiduity. 

In the printed copy of my " Nannie O," the 
name of the river is horridly prosaic. I will alter 
it, 

" Beyond yon hill where Lugak flows.'' 

Girvan is the name of the river that suits the 
idea, of the stanza best, but Lugar is the most 
agreeable modulation of syllables. 

I Avill soon give you a great many more re- 
marks on this business ; but I have just now an 
opportunity of conveying you this scrawl, free of 
postage, an expense that it is ill able Co pay: so, 
with my best compliments to honest Allan, Good 
be wV ye. <fcc. 

Friday Mght. 

Saturday Morning. 

As I find I have still an hour to spare this morn- 
ing before my conveyance goes away, I will give 
•• Nannie (> -> at length. 

Your remarks on " Ewe bughls," ••Marion," 
are just ; still it has obtained a place among our 
more classical Scottish songs; and what with 
many beauties in it - composition, and more pre- 
judices in its favour, you will not find it easy to 
supplant it. 

In my very early years, when I was thinking 
of going to the Wcsl Indies, I took the following 
farewell of a dear girl. It is quite trifling, and 
has nothing of the merit of " Ewe oughts :" but 
it will fill up the page. JTon must know, that all 
my earliest love-songs were the breathings of 
ardent passion : and though it might have been 
easy in after times to have given them a polish, 
yet that polish, to me, whose they wi 
who perh 1 for them, would have 

- id of my leart. which 
faithfully inscribed on them. Their uncouth 
simplicity was, as they say of wines, their race. 

"Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary," «vc. 
"Galla Water" and "Auld Bob Morris," I 
think, will most probably be the next subject of 
my musings. However, even on tmj rerst-s speak 
out vour criticisms with equal frankness. y[y 
wish is, not to stand aloof, the uncomplying 
opiniatrete, but cordially to join issue 
with vuti iu the furtherance of the work. 



KO. V. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

November Wt. 1792. 
If vou mean, my dear sir, that all the songs in 
vour collection shall be poetry of the first merit, 
i am afraid you will find more difficulty in the un- 
dertaking than yon are aware of. There is a 
peculiar rvthmus in manv of our airs and a ne- 
cessity of adapting syllables to the emphasis, or 
what I should call tlie feature votes, of the tune, 
that cramp the poet, and lay him under almost 
insuperable difficulties. For instance, in the air, 
"My wife's a wanton wee thing." if a few lines, 
smooth and pretty, can be adapted to it. it is all 
vou can expect. The following were made ex- 
tempore to it: and though on further study I 
might give vou something more profound, yet it 
might not suit the light-horse gallop of the air so 
well as this random clink. 

" She is a winsome wee thing, "Ac 
I have been looking over the " Collier's bonny 
Dochter." and if the following rhapsody, which 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH MR. THOMSON 



181 



1 composed the other day, on a charming Ayr- 
shire girl. Miss Lesley liailey, as she passed 
through this place to England, will suit your 
taste better than the li Collier Lassie," fall on and 
welcome. 

" O saw ye taonnie Lesley," &e. 
I have hitherto deferred the snblimer, more 
pathetic airs, until more leisure, as they will 
take, and deserve, a greater effort. However, 
they are all put into your hands, as clay into the 
hands of the potter, to make one vessel to 
honour, and another to dishonour. Farewell, 



NO. VI. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
(Enclosing the song commencing) 
"Ye banks and braes, and streams around.") 
Uth November, 1792. 
My Dear Sir,— 
I agree with you, that the song, "Katherine 
Ogie," is very poor staff, and itnwor thy— alto- 
gether unworthy— of so beautiful an air. 1 tried 
to mend it, but the awkward word Ogie, recur- 
ring so often in the rhyme spoils every attempt 
at introducing sentiment into the piece. The 
"foregoing song pleases myself; I think it is in 
my happiest manner ; you will see at first glance 
that it suits the air. The subject of the song is 
one of the most interesting passages of my 
youthful days ; and I own that I should be much 
flattered to see the verses set to an air which 
should ensure celebrity. Perhaps, after all, 'tis 
the still glowing prejudice of my heart, that 
throws a borrowed lustre over the merits of the 
composition. 

1 have partly taken your idea of " Auld Rab 
Morris." I have adopted the two first verses, 
and am going on with the song on a new plan, 
which promises pretty well. I take up one or 
another, just as the bee of the moment buzzes in 
my bonnet lug; and do you say, sans ceremonie, 
make what use you please of the productions. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Nov. 7, 1792. 
Dear Sir,— 

I was just going to write to vou. that on meet- 
ing with your "Nannie," I had fallen violentlv 
in love with her. I thank vou, therefore, for 
sending the charming rustic to me in the dress 
you wish her to ; appear before the public. She 
does you great credit, and will soon be admitted 
into the best company. 

I regret that your song for the" Lea-Rig" is so 
short; the air is easy, sung soon, and verv 
pleasing ; so that if the singer stops at the end of 
two stanzas, it is a pleasure lost ere it is well 
possessed. 

Although a dash of our native tongue and 
manners is doubtless peculiarlv congenial and 
appropriate to our melodies, vet I shall be able 
to present a considerable number of the verv 
Flowers of English Song, well adapted to those 
melodies, which, in England, at least, will be the 
means of recommending them to still greater- 
attention than they have procured there. But 
you must observe, my plan is, that every air 
shall, in the first place, have verses wholfv bv 
Scottish poets; and that those of Encdish writer*-; 
shall follow as additional songs, for the choice of 
the singer. 

What you say of the "Ewe-bughts" is just ; I 
admire it, and never meant to supplant it. All I 
requested was. that you would try vour hand on 
some of the inferior stanzas, which are appa- 
rently no part of the original song; but this 1 do 



not urge, because the song is of sufficient length 
though those inferior stanzas be omitted, as they 
will be by the singer of taste. You must not 
think I expect all th.e songs to be of superlative 
merit: that were an unreasonable expectation. 
I am sensible that no poet can sit down doggedly 
to pen verses and succeed well at all times. . 

I am highly pleased with your humorous and 
amorous rhapsody on " Bonnie Leslie :" it is a 
thousand times better than the "Collier's 
Lassie:" " The deil he couldna scaith thee," <fec., 
is an eccentric and happy thought. Do yen not 
think, however, that the names of such old 
heroes as Alexander sound rather queer, unless 
in pompous or mere burlesque verse ? Instead 
of the line, " And never made anither," I would 
humbly suggest, "And ne'er made sic anither;" 
and I would fain have you substitute some other 
line for "Return to Caledonie," in the last verse, 
because I think this alteration in the ortho- 
graphy, and of the sound of Caledonia, disfigures 
the word, and renders it Hudibrastic. 

Of the other song, "My wife's a winsome wee 
thing," I think the first eight lines are very 
good; but I do not admire the other eight, be- 
cause four of ithern are bare repetitions of the 
irst verses. I have been trying to spin a stanza, 
but could make nothing better than the follow- 
ing; do you mend it, or, as Yorick did with the 
love-letter, whip it up in your own way. 

O leeze me on my wee thing, 
My bonnie blythesomc wee thing; 
Sae lang's I hae my wee thing 
I'll think my lot divine. 

Tho' warld's care we share o't, 
And may see meikle mair o't, 
Wi' her I'll blythely bear it, 
And ne'er a word repine. 

You perceive, my dear sir, I avail myself of the 
liberty which you condescend to allow me by 
speaking freely what I think. Be assured, it is 
not my disposition to pick out the faults of any 
poem or picture I see ; my first and chief object 
is to discover and be delighted with the beauties 
of the piece. If I sit down to examine criticallv, 
and at leisure, what perhaps you have written 
in haste, I may happen to observe careless lines, 
the re-perusal of which might lead you to im- 
prove them. The wren will often see what has 
been overlooked by the eagle. 

I remain yours, faithfully, &c. 

P. S.— Your verses upon Highland Mary are 
just come to hand; they breathe the genuine 
spirit of poetry, and, like the music, will last for 
ever. Such verses united to such an air, with 
delicate harmony of Pleyel superadded, might 
form a treat worthy of being presented to 
Apollo himself. I have heard the sad story of 
your Mary: you always seem inspired when you 
write of her. 



MR BURNS TO MR. THOMSON". 

Dumfries, 1st December, 1792. 
Your alterations of my " Nannie " are per- 
fectly right. So are those of "My wife's wanton 
wee thing." Your alteration of the second 
stanza is a positive improvement. 2sTow, my 
dear sir, with the freedom which characterizes 
our correspondence, I must not, cannot, alter 
"Bonnie Leslie." You are right, the word 
"Alexander" makes the line a little uncouth, 
but I think the thought is pretty. Of Alexander, 
beyond all other heroes, it may be said, in the 
sublime language of scripture, that "he went 
forth conquering and to conquer." 

"For nature made her what she is, 

And never made anither," (such a person as she 



182 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



This is, in my opinion, more poetical than 
"2s'e'er made sic anither." However, it is im- 
material : Make it either way. " Caledonie," I 
agree with you, is not so good a word as could 
be wished, though it is sanctioned in three or 
four instances by Allan Ramsay ; hut I cannot 
help it. In short, that species of stanza is the 
most difficult that I have ever tried. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, January 20th, 1793. 
You make me happy, my dear sir, and thou- 
sands will be happy to see all the charming songs 
you have sent me. Many merry returns of the 
season to you, and may you long continue among 
the sons and daughters of Caledonia, to delight 
them, and to honour yourself. 

The four last songs with which you favoured 
me, for "Auld Rob Morris," "Duncan Gray," 
"Galla Water," and " Cauld Kail," are admir- 
able. Duncan is indeed a lad of grace, and hi; 
humour will endear him to everybody. 

The distracted lover in "Auld Bob," and t>e 
happy shepherdess in "Galla Water," exhibit an 
excellent contrast ; they speak from genuine 
feeling, and powerfully touch the heart. 

The number of songs which 1 had originally in 
view was very limited, but I now resolve to in- 
clude every Scotch air and song worth singing; 
leaving none behind but mere gleanings, to 
which the publishers of "omnegatheruni " are 
welcome. I would rather be the editor of a 
Collection from which nothing could be taken 
away, than of one to which nothing could be 
added. We intend presenting the subscribers 
with two beautiful stroke engravings: the one 
characteristic of the plaintive, and the other of 
the lively songs; and I have Dr. Beattie's 
promise of an essay on the subject of our 
national music, if his health will permit him to 
write it. As a number of our songs have doubt- 
less been called forth by particular events or by 
the peerless charms of peerless damsels, there 
must be many curious anecdotes relating to 
them. 

The late Mr. Tytlcr of Woodhouselee. I believe. 
knew more of this than anybody, for he joined 
to the pursuits of an antiquary a taste for 
poetry, besides being a man of the world, and 
possessing an enthusiasm for music beyond most 
of his contemporaries. lie was quite pleased 
with this plan of mine, for, I may say, it has been 
solely managed by me, and we had several con- 
versations about it, when ir was in embryo. If I 
could simply mention the name of the heroine of 
each song, "and the incident which occasioned 
the verses, it would be gratifying. Pray, will 
you send me any information of this sort, as 
well with regard to your own songs as the old 
ones ? 

To all the favourite songs of the plaintive or 
pastoral kind will be joined the delicate accom- 
paniments. &c, of Pleydel. To those of the 
comic or humorous class, I think accompani- 
ments scarcely necessary: they are chiefly fitted 
for the convfviality of the festive board, and a 
tuneful voice, with a proper delivery of the 
words, renders them perfect. Nevertheless, to 
these Ipropose adding bass accompaniments, 
because then they are fitted either for singing, 
or for instrumental performance, when there 
happens to be no singer. I mean to employ our 
right trusty friend Mr. Clarke to set the bass to 
these, which he assures me he will do. con amore. 
and with much greater attention than he ever 
bestowed upon anything of the kind. But for 
this last class of airs, I will not attempt to find 
more than one set of verses. 

That eccentric bard, Peter Pindar, has started 
I know not how many difficulties about wittinp' 



for the airs I sent to him, because of the pecu- 
liarity of their measur, and the trammels they 
impose on his flying Fes_asus. I subjoin for your 
perusal the only one LJhave yet got from him, 
being the line air "Lo'-i Gregory." The Scot: 
verses printed with thai- air are taken from the 
middle of an old balkiy, called, '-The Lass of 
Lochroyan," which Id 1 not admire. I have set 
down the air therefore -as a creditor of yours. 
Many of the Jacobite so^gs arc replete with wit 
and humour ; might not) the best of these be in- 
cluded in our volume of.comic songs ? 



POSTSCRIPT. 
from: the iion. a. eeskine. 
Mr. Thomson has been so obliging as to give 
me a perusal of yonr songs. " Highland Mary " 
is most enchantingly pathetic, and " Duncan 
Gray" possesses native genuine humour; " Spak 
o' lowpin o'er a linn," is a line of itself that 
should make you immortal. I sometimes hear 
of you from our mutual friend G, who is a 
most excellent fellow, and possesses, above all 
moil I know, the charm of a most obliging dis- 
position. You kindly promised me. about a year 
ago, a collection of your unpublished produc- 
tions, religious and amorous; I know from ex- 
perience how irksome it is to copy. If you will 
get any trusty person in Dumfries to write them 
over fair, I will give Peter Hill whatever monev 
he asks for his trouble; and I ccrtainlv shall 
not betray your confidence. 

I am your hearty admirer, 

Andrew Erskixe. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

26th January. 1793. 
T APPROVE greatly, my dear sir, of your plans, 
Dr. lieattie's essay will of itself be a treasure. 
On my part, I mean to draw up an appendix to 
the Doctor's essay, containing my stock of 
anecdotes. Arc, of our Scots songs. All the 
late .Mr. Tytler's anecdotes I have by me, taken 
down in the course of my acquaintance with 
him from his own mouth. I am such an enthu- 
siast, that in the course of my several peregri- 
nations through Scotland, I made a pilgrimage 
to the individual spot from which every sour; 
took its rise, " Lochaber," and the Braes of lial- 
lenden excepted. So far as the locality, either 
from the title of the air, or the tenour of the song, 
could be ascertained, I have paid my devotions 
at the particular shrine of every Scotch muse. 

I do not doubt but you might make a very 
valuable collection of Jacobite songs— but would 
it give no offence 'i In the meantime, do not yon 
ttiinkthf. some of them, particularly "The Sow's 
tail to Geordie." as an air. with other words, 
might be well worth a place in your collection of 
lively songs? 

If it were possible to procure songs of merit, it 
would be proper to have one set of Scots words 
to every air, and that the set of words to which 
the notes ought to be set. There is a naivete, a 
pastoral simplicity, in a slight intermixture of 
Scots words and phraseology, which is more in 
unison (at least to my taste, and I will add, to 
every genuine Caledonian taste) with the simple 
pathos, or rustic sprightliness of our native 
music, than anv English verses whatever. 

The very name of Peter Pindar is an acquisi- 
tion to your work. His "Gregory " is beautiful. 
I have tried to sive you a set of stanzas in Scots, 
on the same subject," which are at vonr service. 
Not that I intend to enter the lists with Peter; 
that would be presumption indeed. My song, 
though much inferior in poetic merit, has, I think, 
more of the ballad simplicity in it. 

"0 mirk, mirk is this midnight hour. " &c. 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH ME. THOMSON. 



My most respectable compliments to the lio- 
i km i ruble gentleman wl favoured me with a 
postscript in yonr last, .le shall hear from me 
and his MSS. soon. 



ME. THOMSON ''O ME. BURNS. 

Ed >.:. burgh, 2nd April, 1793 
I will not recognise tb ■ title you give yourself. 
'•the prince of indolent correspondents;" but if 
the adjective were take > away, I think the title 
would then fit you exactly. It gives me pleasure 
to find you can furnish anecdotes with respect 
to most of the songs; these will be a literary 
curiosity. 

I now send you my list of the songs, which I 
believe will lie found nearly complete. I have 
put down the first lines of all the English songs, 
which I propose giving in addition to the Scotch 
verses. If any others occur to you. better 
adapted to the character of the airs, pray men- 
tion them, when you favour me with/ your 
strictures upon everything else relating to the 
work. 

Pleyel has lately sent me a number of the 
songs", with his symphonies and accompani- 
ments added to them. I wish you were here 
that I might serve up some of them to you with 
your own verse, by way of desert after dinner. 
There is so much delightful fancy in the sym- 
phonies, and such a delicate simplicity in the 
accompaniments, they are indeed beyond all 
praise. 

I am very much pleased with the several last 
productions of your muse; your "Lord Gre- 
gory," in my estimation, is more interesting 
than Peter's, beautiful as his is! Your "Here 
Awa "Willie " must undergo some alterations to 
suit the air. Mr. Erskine and I have been con- 
ning it over: he will suggest what is necessary 
to make them a fit match. 



MR. BUENS TO ME. THOMSON. 

7th April, 1793. 
Thank yon, my dear sir, for your packet. You 
cannot imagine how much this business of com- 
posing for your publication has added to my 
enjoyments. What with my early attachment 
to ballads, your book, &c, ballad-making is now 
as completely mv hobby-horse as ever fortifica- 
tion was Uncle Toby's; so I'll canter it away till 
I come to the limit of my race, (God grant that 
I may take the right side of the winning post !) 
and then cheerfully looking back on the honest 
folks with whom I have been happy, I shall say, 
or sing, "So merry as we a' hae been," and 
raising my looks to the whole human race, the 
last words of the voice of Cuila* shall be, "Good 
night and joy be wi' you a' !" So much for my 
last words; now for a few present remarks, as 
they have occurred at random on looking over 
your list. 

The first lines of "The last time I came o'er 
the Moor," and several other lines in it, are 
beautiful; but in my opinion— pardon me, re- 
vered shade of Eamsay! the song is unworthy 
of the divine air. I shall try to make or mend. 
"For ever. Fortune wilt thou prove," is a 
charming song; but "Logan burn and Logan 
braes " are sweetly susceptible of rural imagery: 
I'll try that likewise, and if I succeed, the other 
song may class among the English ones. I 



* Burns here calls himself the Voice of Coila. 
in imitation of Ossian, who denominates himself 
the Voice of Cona. " Sae merry as we a' hae 
been," and " Good night, and joy be wi' you a' !'' 
are the names of two Scottish tunes, 



in some 
know a 
pretty : 



remember the last two lines of a verse in i 

)f the old songs of Logan Water (for I kn 

jood many different ones) which I think pr< 

." Now my dear lad maun face his faes, 

Far, far from me and Logan braes."' 

" My Patie is a lover gay" is unequal. "His 
mind is never muddy,"' is a muddy expression 
indeed. 

"Then I'll resign and marry Pate, 
And syne my cockernony." 

This is surely far unworthy of Ramsay, or 
your book. My song, "Rigs of Barley" to the 
same tune does not altogether please me, but if 
I can mend it, and thresh a few loose sentiments 
out of it, I will submit it to your consideration. 
"The Lass o' Patie's Mill" is one of Ramsay's 
best songs ; but there is ovie loose sentiment in 
it, which my much-valued friend, Mr. Erskine, 
will take into his critical consideration. In Sir 
J. Sinclair's statistical volumes are two claims, 
one, I think, from Aberdeenshire, and the other 
from Ayrshire, for the honour of this song. The 
following anecdote, which Iliad from the present 
Sir William Cunningham, of Robertland, who 
had it of the late John, Earl of Loudon, I can 
on such authorities believe. 

Allan Eamsay was residing at Loudon Castle 
with the then Earl, father to Earl John; and 
one forenoon, riding, or walking out together, 
his Lordship and Allan passed a sweet, 
romantic spot on Irwiue water, still called 
"Patie's Mill," where a bonnie lass was 
"tedding hay, bareheaded on the green." My 
Lord observed to Allan that it would be a 
fine theme for a song. Eamsay took the hint, 
and lingering behind, he composed the first 
sketch of it, which he produced at dinner. 

" One day I heard Mary say," is a fine song; 
but for consistency's sake, alter the name 
"Adonis." Was there ever such banns published 
as a purpose of marriage between Adonis and 
Mary ? I agree with you that my song, ' ' There's 
in night but care on every hand," is much superior 
to " Poortith cauld." The original song, "The 
mill, mill O," though excellent, is, on account of 
delicacy, inadmissible ; still I like the title, 
and think a Scottish song would suit the notes 
best ; and let your chosen song, which is very 
pretty, follow, as an English set. "The Banks of 
Bee" is, you know, literally "Langolee" in 
slow time." The song is well enough, but has 
some false imagery to it, for instance, 



In the first place, the nightingale sings in a 
low bush, but never from a tree; and in the 
second place, there never was a nightingale seen 
or heard on the Banks of the Dee, or on the 
banks of any other river in Scotland. Exotic 
rural imagery is always comparatively flat. If 
I could hit on another stanza equal to " The 
small birds rejoice," <fcc. I do myself honestly 
avow that I think it. a superior song.* "John 
Anderson my jo "—the song to this tune in 
Johnson's Museum— is my composition, and I 
think it not the worst : If it suit you, take it and 
welcome. Your collection of sentimental and 
pathetic songs is, in my opinion, very complete ; 
but not so your comic ones. Where are " Tul- 

' " T,T 



in the Museum which was never known out of 

* It will be found in the course of this corre- 
spondence, that the Bard produced a second 
stanza of "The Chevalier's Lament" (to which 
he here alludes), worthy of the first. 



BURXS' POETICAL WORKS. 



the immediate neighbourhood, until I got it 
taken down from a country girl's singing. It is 
called " Cragieburn Wood ;" and, in the opinii m 
of Mr. Clarke, is one of our sweetest Scot- 
tish songs. He is quite an enthusiast about 
it ; and I would take his taste in Scottish music 
against the taste of most connoisseurs. 

You are quite right in inserting the last five in 
your list, though they are certainly Irish. 
"Shepherds I have lost my love," is to me a 
heavenly air— what would you think of a set of 
Scottish verses to it? I have made one to it a 
good while ago, which I think ...... but 

in its original state is not quite a lady's song I 
enclose an altered, not amended, copy for you, 
if you choose to set the tune to it, and let the 
Irish verses follow.* 

Mr. Erskine's songs are all pretty, but his 
" Lone Vale " is divine. 

Yours, &c. 

Let me know just how you like these random 
hits. 



MIL THOMSON TO ME. BURXS. 



I eejoice to find, 
making continues 1 
pity 'twould be we 
will amble it away 
the world with you 
I know there ar 
merit that I have 
you; but I have 
Patie is a lover ga; 
a very natural and 
think we ought not 
the last stanza. 



my de 
be your hooby-horse. Great 

re it otherwise. I hope you 
for many a year and " witch 
r horsemanship." 

a good many lively songs of 
not put down in the list sent 
them all in my eye. " My 
"," though a little unequal, is 
pleasing song, and I humbly 
to displace or alter it, except 



ME. BUEXS TO ME. THOMSOX. 

April, 1793. 
I have yours, my dear sir, this moment. I shall 
answer it and your former letter, in my desul- 
tory way of saying whatever comes uppermost. 
The business of many of our tunes wanting, at 
the beginning, what tiddlers call a starting-note, 
is often a rub to us poor rhymers. 

"There's braw, brawlads on Yarrow braes, 
That -wander through the blooming heather, 

You may alter to 



My song, "Here awa, there awa," as mended 
by Mr. Erskine, I entirely approve of, and re- 
turn you. 

Give me leave to criticise your taste in the 
only thing in which it is in my opinion repre- 
hensible. You know I ought to know some- 
thing of my own trade. Of pathos, sentiment, 
and point, you are a complete judge: but there 
is a quality more necessary than either, in a 
song, and which is the very essence of a ballad, 
I mean simplicity; now, if I mistake not, this 
last feature you are apt to sacrifice to the fore- 
going. 

Ramsay, as every other poet, has not been 
always equally happy in his pieces; still I 
cannot approve of taking such liberties with 
an author as Mr. W. proposes doing with " The 
last time I came o'er the Moor." Let a poet, if 
he chooses, take up the idea of another, and 
work it into a piece of his own ; but to mangle 
the works of the poor bard, whose tuneful 



ton cue is now mute for ever, in the dark and 
narrow house— by Heaven 'twould be sacrilege! 
I grunt that Mr. W.'s version is an improvement; 
but I know Mr. W. well, and esteem him much ; 
let him amend the song, as the Highlander 
mended his gun:— he gave it anew stock, and a 
new lock, and a new barrel. 

I do not, by this, object toleaving out improper 
stanzas, where that can be done without spoil- 
ing the whole. One stanza in " The Lass o' 
Patie's mill " must be left out : the song will be 
nothing worse for it. I am not sure if we can 
take the same liberty with "Corn rigs are 
bonnie." Perhaps it might want the last stanza, 
and be the bettor for it. " Cauld Kail in Aber- 
deen," you must leave with me yet awhile. 1 
have vowed to have a song to that air on the 
lady whom I attempted to celebrate in the 
verses "Poortith cauld and restless Love." At 
any rate, my other song. "Green grow the 
Rashes," will never suit. That song is current 
in Scotland under the old title, and to the merry 
old tune of that name, which of course would 
mar the progress of your song to celebrity. Your 
book will be the Standard of Scotch songs for 
the future : let this idea ever keep your judg- 
ment on the alarm. 

I send a song, on a celebrated toast in this 
country to suit "Bonnie Dundee." I send you 
also a ballad to the "Mill, mill O." 

" The last time 1 came o'er the Moor," I would 
fain attempt to make a Scots song for, and let 
Ramsay's be the English set. You shall hear 
from me soon. When you go to London on this 
business, can you come by Dumfries? I have 
still several MSS. Scots airs by me which I 
have picked up, mostly from the singing of 
country lasses. They please me vastly ; but 
your learned lugs would perhaps be displeased 
with the very feature for which 1 like them. I 
call them simple ; you would pronounce them 
silly. Do you know a fine air called " Jackie 
Hume's Lament ?" I have a song of consider- 
able merit to that air. I'll enclose you both the 
song and tune, as I had them ready to send to 
Johnson's Museum. I send vou likewise, to me, 
a beautiful little air, which I had taken down 
from viva voce. 

Adieu ! 



NO. XIV. 

MR. THOMSON TO ME. BUEXS. 

Edinburgh, 26th, April, 1793 
I heartily thank you, my dear sir, for your 
last two letters, and the song which accompanied 
them. I am always both instructed and enter- 
tained by your observations ; and the frankness 
with which you speak your mind is to me hiithh- 
agreeable. It is very possible I may not have 
the true idea of simplicity in composition. I 
confess there are several songs of Allan Ram- 
say's, for example, that I think silly enough, 
which another person more conversant than I 
have been with country people would perhaps 
call simpie and natural. But the lowest scenes 
of simple nature will not please generally, if 
copied precisely as they are. The poet, like" the 
painter, must select what will form an agreeable 
as well as a natural picture. On this subject it 
were easy to enlarge; but at present suffice it 
to say, that I consider simplicity, rightly under- 
stood, as a most essential quality in composition, 
and the ground-work of beauty in all the arts. 
I will glacllv appropriate your "most interesting 
new ballad. " When wild War's deadly blast." 
<fcc, to the "Mill, mill O," as w«H as the other 
two songs to their respective airs ; but the third 
and fourth line of the first verses must undergo 
some little alteration in order to suit the music. 
Pleyel does not alter a single note of the songs. 
That would be absurd indeed ! With the airs 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH MR. THOMSON. 



185 



which he introduces into the sonatas, I allow 
him to take such liberties as he pleases, but that 
has nothing to do with the songs. 



P.S.— I wish you would do as you proposed 
with your " Rigs o' Barley." If the loose senti- 
ments were threshed out of it, I will find an air 
for it ; hut as to this there is no hurry. 



MR, BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

June, 1793. 
When I tell you, my dear sir, that a friend of 
mine, in whom I am much interested, has fallen a 
sacrifice to these accursed times, you will easily 
allow that it might unhinge me for doing any 
good among ballads. My own loss, as to pecu- 
niary matters, is trifling ; but the total ruin of a 
much-loved friend is a loss indeed. Pardon 
my seeming inattention to your last commands. 

1 cannot alter the disputed lines in the "Mill, 
mill O." What you think a defect I esteem as a 
positive beauty : so you see how doctors differ. 
I shall now, with as much alacrity as I can 
muster, go on with your commands. 

You know Fraser, the hautboy player in Edin- 
burgh—he is here instructing a band of music 
for a fencible corps quartered in this country. 
Among many of the airs that please me, there is 
one well known as a reel by the name of " The 
Quaker's Wife ;" and which 1 remember a grand 
aunt of mine used to sing, by the name of " Lig- 
geram cosh, my bonny wee lass." Mr. Fraser 
plays it slow, and with an expression that quite 
charms me. I became such an enthusiast about 
it, that I made a song for it, which I here sub- 
join; and enclose Eraser's set of the tune. If 
they hit your fancy, they are at your service ; if 
not, return me the tune, and I will put it in 
Johnson's Museum. 1 think the song is not in 
my worst manner. 

NO. XVI. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

January, 5, 1793. 
Have you ever, my dear sir, felt your bosom 
ready to burst with indignation on reading of 
those mighty villains who divide kingdom 
against kingdom, desolate provinces, and lay 
nations waste out of the wantonness of am- 
bition, or often from still more ignoble passions? 
In a mood of this kind to-day, I recollected the 
air of "Logan Water ;" and it occurred to me 
that its querulous melody probably had its 
origin from the plaintive indignation of some 
swelling, suffering heart, fired at the tyrannic 
strides of some public destroyer; and over- 
whelmed with private distress, the consequence 
of a country's ruin. If I have done anything at 
all like justice to my feelings, the following 
song, composed in three quarters of an hour's 
meditation in my elbow-chair, ought to have 
some merit. 

" O, Logan sweetly didst thou glide," &c. 

Do yon know the following beautiful little 
fragment, in Witherspoon's Collection of Scots 
Songs '•> 

" O gin my love were yon red rose, 
"That grows upon the castle wa' 

"And I mysel' a drap o' dew, 
" Into her bonnie breast to fa' ! 

" Oh ! there beyond expression blest, 
" I'd feast on beauty a' the night ; 

" Seal'd on her silk-saft faulds to rest, 
" Till fley'd away by Phoebus' light." 

This thought is inexpressively beautiful ; and. 



quite, so far as 1 know, original. It is too short 
for a song, else I would forswear you altogether, 
unless you gave it a place. I have often tried to 
eke out a stanza to it, but in vain, after balanc- 
ing myself for a musing five minutes, on the 
hind less of my elbow-chair, I produced the 
following. 

The verses are far inferior to the foregoing I 
frankly confess ; but if worthy of insertion at all, 
they might be first in place ; as every poet who 
knows anything of his trade will husband his 
best thoughts for a concluding stroke. 

" were my love yon lilac fair," &c. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Monday, 1st July, 1793. 
I am extremely sorry, my good sir, that any- 
thing should happen to unhinge yon. The times 
are terribly out of tune, and when harmony will 
be restored, heaven knows. 

The first book of songs, just published, will be 
despatched to you along with this. Let me be 
favoured with your opinion of it frankly and 
freely. 

I shall certainly give a place to the song you 
have written for the " Quaker's Wife ;" it is quite 
enchanting. Pray, will you return the list of 
songs, with such airs added to it as you thins 
ought to be included. The business now rests 
entirely on myself, the gentleman who origi- 
nally agreed to join in the speculation having 
requested to be off. No matter; a loser I cannot 
be. The superior excellence of the work will 
create a general demand for it, as soon as it is 
properly known. And were the sale even slower 
than what it promises to be, I should be some- 
what compensated for my labour, by the plea- 
sure I should receive from the music. I cannot 
express hoAv much I am obliged to you for the 
exquisite new songs you are sending me; but 
thanks, my friend, are a poor return for what 
you have done: as I shall be benefited by the pub- 
lication, you must suffer me to enclose a small 
mark of my gratitude, and to repeat it after- 
wards when I find it convenient. Do not return 
it, for by heaven, if you do, our correspondence 
is at an end ; and though this would be no loss 
to you, it would mar the publication, which, 
under your auspices, cannot fail to be respectable 
and interesting. 

Wednesday morning. 
I thank you for your delicate additional verses 
to the old fragment, and for your excellent song 
of Logan water : Thomson's truly elegant one 
will follow for the English singer. Your apos- 
trophe to statesmen is admirable, but I am not 
sure if it is quite suitable to the supposed 
gentle character of the fair mourner who speaks 
it. 

NO. XVIII. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

July 2, 1793. 
My Dear Sir,— 
I have just finished the following ballad, and 
as I do think it in my best style, I send it you. 
Mr. Clarke, who wrote down the air from Mrs. 
Burns "'wood-note wild," is very fond of it; and 
has given it a celebrity by teaching it to some 
young ladies of the first fashion here. If you do 
not like the air enough to give it a place in your 
collection, please return it. The song you may 
keep, as I remember it. 

" There was a lass, and she was fair," &c. 
I have some thoughts of inserting in your in- 
dex, or jn my notes, the names of the fair ones, 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Ihe themes of my songs. I do not mean the 
name at full, but dashes or asterisms, so as in- 
genuity may find them out. 

The heroine of the foregoing is Miss M , 

daughter to Mr. M of D , one of your sub- 
scribers. I have not painted her in the rank 
which she holds in life, but in the dress and 
character of a cottager. 

NO. XIX. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

July, 1793. 
I assure you, my dear sir, that you truly hurt 
me with your pecuniary parcel. It degrades me 
in my own eyes. However, to return it would 
savour of affectation; but as to any more traffic 
of that debtor and creditor kind, I swear by that 
Honour which crowns the upright statue of 
Robert Burns' Integrity— on the least motion 
of it, I will indignantly spurn the by-past trans- 
action, and from that moment commence entire 
stranger to you? Burns' character for gene- 
rosity of sentiment, and independence of mind 
will, I trust, long outlive any of his wants, which 
the cold unfeeling ore can supply; at least, I 
will take care that such a character he shall de- 
serve. 

Thank you for my copy of your publication. 
Never did my eyes behold, in any musical work, 
such elegance and correctness. Your preface, 
too, is admirably written ; only, your partiality 
to me has madeVou say too much; however, it 
will bind me down to double every effort in the 
future progress of the work. The following are 
a few remarks on the songs in the list you sent 
me. I never copy what I write to you, so I 
maybe often tautological, or, perhaps, contradic- 
tory. 

"The Flowers of the Forest" is charming as a 
poem ; and should be, and must be, set to the 
notes ; but, though out of your rule, the three 
stanzas, beginning, 

" I hae seen the smiling o' fortune beguiling," 
are worthy of a place, were it but to immorta- 
lize the author of them, who is an old lady of my 
acquaintance, and at this moment living in 
Edinburgh. She is a Mrs. Cockburn: I forget 
of what place ; but from Roxburghshire. What 
a charming apostrophe is 
" O fickle fortune, why this cruel sporting, 

Why, why torment us— poor sons of a day !" 
The old ballad, " I wish I were where Helen 
lies," is silly, to contemptibility. My alteration 
of it,- in Johnson's, is not much better. Mr. 
Pinkerton, in his, what he calls. Ancient Ballads 
(many of them notorious, though beautiful 
enough forgeries), has the best set. It is full of 
his own interpolations— but no matter. 

In my next. I will suggest to your considera- 
tion a few songs which may have escaped your 
hurried notice. In the meantime, allow me to 
congratulate you now, as a brother of the quill. 
Yon have committed your character and fame; 
which will now be tried, for ages to come, by 
the illustrious jury of the Sons and Daughters 
of Taste— all whom poesy can please, or music 
charm. 

Being a bard of nature, I have some preten- 
sions to second sight; and 1 am warranted by 
the spirit to foretell and affirm, that your great 
grandchild will hold up your volumes, and say, 
with honest pride, "This so much admired se- 
lection was the work of my ancestor." 

NO. XX. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, August, 1793. 
Dear Sir,— 
I had the pleasure of receiving vour last two 
letters, and am happy to. find you are quite 



pleased with the appearance of the first book. 
When you come to hear the songs sung and 
accompanied, you will be much charmed with 
them. 

"The Bonnie Bracket Lassie" certainly de- 
serves better verses, and 1 hope you will match 
her. "Cauld Kail in Aberdeen," "Let me in 
this ae Night," and several of the livelier airs, 
wait the muse's leisure ; these are peculiarly 
worthy of her choicest gifts ; besides, you'll 
notice, that in the airs of this sort, the singer 
can always do greater justice to the poet than 
in the slower airs of "The Bush aboon Tra- 
quair," " Lord Gregory," and the like ; for in the 
manner the latter are frequently sung, you must 
be contented with the sound, without the sense. 
Indeed, both the airs and words are disguised 
by the veryslow, languid, psalm-singing style in 
which they are too often performed: they lose 
animation and expression altogether, and in- 
stead of speaking to the mind, or touching the 
heart, they cloy upon the ear, and set us a 
yawning ! 

Your ballad, "There was a lass and she was 
fair," is simple and beautiful, and shall un- 
doubtedly grace my collection. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

August, 1793. 
Mt Good Sir,— 

I consider it one of the most agreeable cir- 
cumstances attending this publication of mine, 
that it has procured me so many of your much- 
valued epistles. Pray make my acknowledg- 
ments to St. Stephen for the tunes ; tell him I 
admit the justness of his compiaint on my stair- 
case, conveyed in his laconic postscript to your 
jeu d' esprit; which I perused more than once, 
without discovering exactly whether your dis- 
cussion was music, astronomy, or politics; 
though a sagacious friend, acquainted with the 
convivial habits of the poet and the musician, 
offered me a bet of two to one you were just 
drowning care together; that an empty bowl 
was the onlv thing that would deeply affect you, 
and the only matter you could then study how 
to remedy! 

I shall be glad to see you give " Robin Adair" 
a Scottish dress. Peter is furnishing him with 
an English suit for a change, and you are well 
matched together. Robin's air is excellent, 
though he certainly has an out-of-the-way 
measure as ever poor Parnassian wight was 
plagued with. I wish you wouid invoke the 
muse for a single elegant stanza to be substi- 
tuted for the concluding objectionable verses of 
"Down the burn, Davie," so that this most ex- 
quisite song may no longer he excluded from 
good company. 

Mr. Allan 'has made an inimitable drawing 
from your " John Anderson, my jo," which I am 
to have engraved, as a frontispiece to the 
humorous class of songs; you will be quite 
charmed with it, I promise von. The old couple 
are seated by the fireside/ Mrs. Anderson, in 
great good humour, is clapping John's shoulders, 
while he smiles and looks at her with such glee 
as to show that he fully recollects the pleasant 
days and nights when they were first acquent 
The drawing would do honour to the pencil of 
Teniers. 

NO. XXII. 

MR. BURNS TO ME. THOMSON. 

August, 1798. 
That crinkum-crankum tune, "Robin Adair," 
has run so in my head, and I suceeeded so ill in 
my last attempt, that I have ventured, in this 
morning's walk, one essay more. You, my dear 



sir, will remember an unfortunate part of our 
worthy friend C.'s story, which happened about 
three vears ago. That struck ray fancy, and I 
endeavoured to do the idea justice, as follows.— 



" Had I a cave on some wild, distant shore, ' : &c. 

By the wav, I have met with a musical High- 
lander, in Breadalbane's fencibles, which are 
quartered here, who assures me that he well 
remembers his mother's singing Gaelic songs 
both to "Robin Adair," and " Gramaehree." 
They certainly have more of the Scotch than 
Irish taste in them. 

This man comes from the vicinity of Inver- 
ness; so it could not be any intercourse with 
Ireland that could bring them:— except, what 1 
shrewdly suspect to be the case, the wandering 
minstrels, harpers, and pipers, used to go fre- 
quently errant through the wilds both of Scot- 
land and Ireland, and so some favourite airs 
might be common to both.— A case in point— 
They have lately, in Ireland, published an Irish 
air, as they sav, called " C'aun du dehsh." The 
fact is, in a publication of Corn's, a great while 
ago, you will find the same air, called a High- 
land one, with a Gaelic song set to it. Its name 
there, I think, is " Oran Gaoil," and a fine air it 
is. Do ask honest Allan, or the Rev. Gaelic 
Parson, about these matters. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 
Mr Dear Sir,— August. 1739. 

"Let me in this ae night," I will re-consider, 
lam glad you are pleased with my song, "Had I 
a cave," &c, as I liked it myself. 

I walked out yesterday evening, with a volume 
of the " .Museum " in ray hand ; when turning up 
"Allan Water," " What numbers shall the muse 
repeat," &c, as the words appeared to me 
rather unworthy of so fine an air : and recollect- 
ing that it is on your list, I sat and raved under 
the shadow of ah old thorn, till I wrote out one 
to suit the measure. I may be wrong, but I 
think it not in my worst style. You must know, 
that in " Ramsay's Tea-table," where the modern 
song first appeared, the ancient name of the 
tune, Allan says, is "Allan Water," or, "My 
Love Annie's very bonnie." This last has cer- 
tainly been a line"of tire original song ; so I took 
up the idea, and, as yon will see, have intro- 
duced the line in its place, which I presume it 
formerly occupied; though I likewise give you a 
" choosing line, " that should not hit the cut of 
your fancy. 

" By Allan-stream I chanced to rove," &c. 

Bravo! say I; it is a good song. Should you 
think it so too (not else), you can set the music 
to it, and let the other follow as English verses. 

Autumn is my propitious season. I make more 
verses in it than in all the year else- 
God bless you! 



NO. XXIV. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 
Is "Whistle and I'll come to vou, ray lad," one 
of your airs V I admire it much : and"y<?sterda v 
I set the following verses to it. Urbani, whom 
I met with here, begged them of me, as he 
admires the air much; but as I understand that 
he looks with rather an evil eye on your work, I 
did not choose to comply. However, if the song 
does not suit your taste, I may possibly send it 
to him. The set of the air which I had in my 
eye is in Johnson's Museum. 

ft whistle and I'll cpine to you, my lad," &c. 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH MR. THOMSON. 187 

Another favourite air of mine is, "Themnckin 
o' Geordie's byre." When sung slow, with ex- 
pression, I have wished that it had nad better 
poetry ; that I have endeavoured to supply as 
follows :— 

" Adown winding Nith I did wander," &c. 



no. xxv. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

August, 1793. 

That tune, " Cauld Kail," is such a favourite of 
yours, that I once more roved out yesterday for 
a gloarain shot at the muses ; when the muse 
that presides o'er the shores of Nith, or rather 
my old inspiring dearest nymph, Coila, whis- 
pered me the following. I have two reasons for 
thinking that it was my early, sweet, simple 
inspirer that was by my elbow, " smooth gliding 
without step," and pouring the song on my glow- 
ing fancy. In the first place, since I left Coila's 
native haunts, not a fragment of a poet has 
risen to cheer her solitary musings by catching 
inspiration from her; so I more than suspect 
that she has followed me hither, or at least, 
makes me occasional visits; secondly, the last 
stanza of this song I send you in the very words 
that Coila taught me many years ago, and which 
I set to an old Scots reel in Johnson s Museum. 
Air—* 1 Cauld Kail." 
" Come let me take thee to my breast," &c. 

If you think the above will suit your idea of 
your favourite air, I shall be highly pleased. 
•' The last time I came o'er the Muii\" 1 cannot 
meddle with, as to mending it: and the musical 
world have been so long accustomed to Ramsay's 
words, that a different song, though positively 
superior, would not be so well received. I am 
not fond of choruses to songs, so I have not 
made one for the foregoing. 

no. xxvr. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 1st Sept., 1793. 
My Dear Sir,— 

Since writing you last, I have received half a 
dozen songs, with which I am delighted beyond 
expression. The humour and fancy'of "Whistle 
and I'll come to you, my lad," will render it 
nearly as great a favourite as "Duncan Gray." 
" Come let me take thee to ray breast," " Adown 
winding Nith," and "By Allan stream," <fcc, are 
full of imagination and' feeling, and sweetly suit 
the airs for which they are intended. " Had I a 
cave on some wild distant shore," is a striking 
and affecting composition. Our friend, to whose 
story it refers, read it with a swelling heart, I 
assure you. The union we are now forming, I 
think, can never be broken ; these songs of yours 
will descend with the music to the latest pos- 
terity, and will be fondly cherished so long as 
genius, taste, and sensibility exist in our island. 

While the muse seems so'propitious, I think it 
right to enclose a list of all the favours I have to 
ask of her, no fewer than twenty and three! I 
have burdened the pleasant Peter with as many 
as it is probable he will attend to : most of the 
remaining airs would puzzle the English poet 
not a little ; they are of that peculiar measure 
and rhythm, that they must be familiar to him 
who writes for them. 

no. xxvn. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 
You may readily trust, my dear sir, that any 
exertion in my power is heartily at your service. 
But one thing I must hint to you ; the very 
name of Peter Pindar js of great service to your 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



publication, so get a verse from him now and 
then: though I have no objection, as well as I 
can, to bear the burden of the business. 

You know that my pretensions to musical 
taste are merely a few of nature's instincts, un- 
taught and untutored by art. For this reason, 
many musical compositions, particularly where 
much of the merit lies in counterpoint, however 
they may transport and ravish the ears of the 
connoisseurs, affect my simple lug no otherwise 
than merely as melodious din. On the other 
hand, by way of amends, I am delighted with 
many little melodies, which the learned musi- 
cian despises as silly or insipid. I do not know 
whether the old air, "Hey tuttie taittie" may 
rank among this number; but well I know that, 
with : Fraser's hautboy, it has often filled my 
eyes with tears. There is a tradition, which I 
have met with in many places in .Scotland, that 
it was Robert Brace's march at the battle of 
Bannockburn. — This thought, in my solitary 
wanderings, warned me to a pitch of enthusiasm 
on the theme of Liberty and Independence, 
which I threw into a kind of Scottish ode, fitted 
to the air that one might suppose to be the 
Royal Scot's address to his heroic followers on 
that eventful morning. 

"Scots, wha hac wi' Wallace bled," &c. 

So may God ever defend the cause of Truth 
and Liberty, as he did that day !— Amen. 

PS.— I showed the air to Urbani, who was 
highly pleased with it, and begged me to make 
soft verses for it : but I had no idea of giving 
myself any trouble on the subject, till the acci- 
dental recollection of that glorious struggle for 
freedom, associated with the glowing ideas of 
some other struggles of the same nature, not 
quite so ancient, roused my rhyming mania. 
Clarke's set of the tune, with his bass, you will 
find in the Museum; though I am afraid that the 
air is not what will entitle it to a place in your 
elegant selection. 

NO. XXVIII. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

September, 1793. 
I dare say, my dear sir, that you will begin to 
think my correspondence is persecution. No 
matter, 1 can't help it, a ballad is my hobby- 
horse ; which, though otherwise a simple sort of 
harmless, idiotical beast enough, has yet this 
blessed headstrong property, that when once it 
has fairlv made off with a hapless wight, it gets 
so enamoured with the tinkle-single, tinkle- 
gingle of its own bells, that it is sure to run 
poor pil-garlick, the bedlam jockey, quite be- 
yond any useful point or post in the common 
race of mam 

The following song I have composed for 
" Oran-gaoil," the Highland air that you tell me, 
in your last, you have resolved to give a place 
to in your book. I have this moment finished 
the song ; so you have it glowing from the mint. 
If it suit you, well ! if not, 'tis also well ! 
" Behold the hour, the boat arrive," &c. 



KO. XXIX. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh. 5th Sept., 1793. 
I believe it is generally allowed that the greatest 
modestv is the sure attendant of the greatest 
merit. While you are sending me verses that 
even Shakspere might be proud to own, you 
speak of them as if they were ordinary produc- 
tions ! Your heroic ode is to me tiie noblest 
composition of Ihe kind inthe Scottish language. 
I happened to dine yesterday with a party of 
your friends to whom I read it. They were all 



charmed with it, entreated me to find out a 
suitable air for it, and reprobated the idea of 
giving it a tune so totally devoid of interest or 
grandeur as "Hey tuttie taittie." Assuredly 
your partiality for this tune must arise from the 
ideas associated in your mind by the tradition 
concerning it, for I never heard any person,— 
and I have conversed again and again with the 
greatest enthusiasts for Scottish airs,— 1 say I 
never heard any one speak of it as worthy of 
notice. 

I have been running over the whole hundred 
airs, of which I lately sent you the list ; and I 
think " Lewie Gordon " is most happily adapted 
to your ode ; at least with a very short varia- 
tion of the fourth line, which I shall presently 
submit to you. There is in "Lewie Gordon" 
more of the grand than the plaintive, particu- 
larly when it is sung with a degree of spirit 
which your words would oblige the singer to 
give it. I would have no scruple about substi- 
tuting vour ode in the room of " Lewie Gordon," 
which has neither the interest, the grandeur, 
nor the poetry that characterize your verses. 
Now the variation I have to suggest on the last 
line of each verse, the only line too short for the 
air, is as follows : 

Verse 1st, Or to glorious victorie. 

2nd, Chains— chains and slaverie. 

3rd, Let him. h.-t him turn and flie. 

4th, Let him brarehi follow me. 

5th, But they shall, they shall be free. 

Cth, Let us, let us do, or die ! 
If you connect eacli line with its own verse, I 
do not think you will find that either the senti- 
ment or the expression loses any of its energy. 
The only line which I dislike in the whole of the 
song is.' "Welcome to your gory .bed." Would 
not another word be preferable to welcome? In 
the next. I expect to be informed whether you 
agree to what I have proposed. These little 
alterations I submit with the greatest defer- 

The beauty of the verses yon have made for 
" Oran-gaoil " will ensure celebrity to the air. 



KO. XXX. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON, 

September. 1703. 
" Who will decide when doctors disagree ?" My 
ode pleases me so much that I cannot alter it. 
Your proposed alterations would, in my opinion, 
make it tame. I am exceedingly obliged to you 
for puttingme on reconsidering it ; I think I have 
much improved it. Instead of " sodger! hero !" 
I will have " Caledonia ! on wi' me !" 

I have scrutinized it over and over; and to 
the world some wav or other it shall go as it is. 
At the same time it will not in the least hurt me, 
should vou leave it out altogether and adhere to 
vour first intention of adopting Logan's verses 

I have finished mv song to " Saw ye to my 
father;" and in English, as you will see. That 
there is a syllable too much for the expression 
of the air. it 'is true: but allow me to say, that 
the mere dividing of a dotted crotchet into a 
crotchet and a quaver is not a great matter: 
however, in that. I have no pretension to cope 
in judgment with you. Of the poetry I speak 
with confidence ; but the music is a business 
where I hint mv ideas with modest diffidence. 

The old verses have merit, though unequal, 
and are popular; mv advice is to set the air to 
the old words, and let mine follow as English 
verses. 

"Where are the joys I hae met in the morn- 
ing," <fcc. 

Adieu, my dear sir ! The post goes, so I shall 
di'ier some other remarks -until more leisure 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH MR, THOMSON, 



189 



NO. XXXI. 

ME. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

October, 1793. 
Yorn last letter, ray dear Thomson, was indeed 
laden with heavy news. Alas, poor Erskine ! 
The recollection that he was a coadjutor in your 
publication has, till now, scared me from writ- 
ing to yon, or turning my thoughts on compos- 
ing for you. 

I am pleased that you are reconciled to the air 
of the "Quakers Wife," though, by the bye, an 
old Highland gentleman, and a deep antiquarian. 
tells me it is a Gaelic air, and known by the 
name of "Leigher 'm choss." The following 
verses I hope will please you, as an English song 
to the air. 

" Thine am I, my faithful fair," &c. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

May, 1794. 
My Heap. Sir,— 

I return you the plates, with which 1 am 
highly pleased ; I would humbly propose, instead 
of the younker knitting stockings, to put a stock 
and horn into his hands. A friend of mine, who 
is positively the ablest judge 6n the subject I 
have ever met with, and though an unknown 
is yet a superior artist with the " Burin," is 
quite charmed with Allan's manner: I got him a 
peep of the " Gentle Shepherd," and he pro- 
nounces Allan a most original artist of great 
excellence. 

For my part, 1 look on Mr. Allan's choosing 
my favourite poem for his subject to be one of 
the highest compliments 1 have ever received. 

I am quite vexed at Plevel's being cooped up 
in France, as it will put an entire stop to our 
work. Now, and for six or seven months, "I 
shall be quite in song," as you shall see by and 
by. I got an air, pretty enough, composed by 
Lady Elizabeth Heron, of Heron, which Syhe 
calls " The Banks of Cree." Cree is a beautiful 
romantic stream; and as her ladyship is a par- 
ticular friend of mine, 1 have written the follow- 
ing song t© it. 

" Here is the glen, and here the bouer." &c. 



NO. XXXIII. 

ME. BURNS TO MB. THOMSON. 

July, 1794. 
Is there no news yet of Pleyel ? Or is your work 
to be at a dead stop until the allies set our 
modern Orpheus at liberty from the savage 
thraldom of democratic discords. Alas, the day ! 
And woe's me ! That auspicious period, pregnant 

with the happiness of millions 

I have presented a copy of our songs to the 
daughter of a much-valued and much-honoured 
friend of mine, Mr. Graham of Fintry. I wrote, 
on the blank side of a title-page the following 
address to the young lady. 
"Here, where the Scottish muse immortal 
lives," cfec. 



criticism. I was pleased with several lines in it 
at first; but I own, that now, it appears rather 
a flimsy business. 

This is just a hasty sketch, until I see whether 
it be worth a critique. We have many sailor 
songs ; but, so far as 1 at present recollect, they 
are mostly the effusions of the jovial sailor, not 
the waitings of his lovelorn mistress. 1 must 
here make one sweet exception—' 1 Sweet Annie 
frae the sea-beach came." Now for the song. 
"How can my poor heart be glad," &c. 

I give you leave to abuse this song, but do it in 
the spirit of Christian meekness. 



NO. XXXIV, 

MR. BURNS TO MB. THOMSON. 

WthAuqust. 1794. 
iHF>last evening, as I was straying out and 
thinking of "O'er the hills and far'awa ;"' I smin 
the following stanza for it ; but whether nrv 
spinning will deserve to be laid up in store like 
the precious thread of the silk-worm, or brushed 
to the devil like the vile manufactures of the 
spider, I leave, my dear sir. to your usual candid 



NO. XXXV. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, lWiSept., 1794. 
My Dear Sib,— 
You have anticipated my opinion of " On the 
seas and far away ;" I do not think it one of your 
very happv productions, though it certainly con- 
tain- stanzas that are worthy of all acceptation. 
The second is the least to my liking, parti- 
cularly, " Bullets, spare my only joy." Con- 
found the bullets. It might perhaps be objected 
to the third verse, "At the starless midnight 
hour." that it has too much grandeur of imagery, 
and that greater simplicity of thought would 
have better suited the character of a sailor's 
sweetheart. The tune, it must be remembered, 
is of the brisk, cheerful kind. Upon the whole, 
therefore, in my humble opinion, the song would 
i be better adapted to the tune, if it consisted only 
I of the first and last verses, with the choruses. 

NO. XXXVI. 

MR, BURNS TO MR, THOMSON. 

September, 1794. 
I shall withdraw my " On the seas and far 
away" altogether; it is unequal, and unworthy 
of tlie work. Making a poem is like begetting a 
son ; you cannot know whether you have a wise 
man or a fool, until you produce him to the 
world and try him. 

For that reason I send you the offspring of my 
brain, abortions and all; and as such, pray look 
over them and forgive them, and burn them. I 
am flattered at your adopting " Ca' the yowes to 
the knowes," as it was owing to me that it ever 
saw the light. About seven years ago I was 
well acquainted with a worthy little fellow of a 
clergyman, a Mr. Clunzie, who sung it charm- 
ingly"; and. at my request. Mr. Clarke took it 
down from his singing. When I gave it to John- 
son, I added some stanzas to the song, and 
mended others, but still it will not do for you. 
In a solitary stroll which I took to-day, I tried 
my hand on a few pastoral linos, following up 
the idea of the chorus, which I would preserve. 
Here it is, with all its crudities and imperfec- 
tions on its head. 

"Ca, the yowes to the knowes," <fcc. 

I shall give you my opinion of your other 
newly adopted songs. { n y fir^t scribbling fit. 



NO. XXXVII. 

MR. BURNS TO MB. THOMSON. 

September, 1794. 
Do yon know a blackguard Irish song, called 
•• Oiiagh's Waterfall?" The air is charming, and 
I have often regretted the want of decent verses 
to it. It is too much, at Jeast for my humble 
rustic muse, to expect that every effort of hers 
shall have merit ; still I think it is better to have 
mediocre verses to a favourite air, than none at 
all. On this principle I have all along proceeded 
in the Scots Musical Museum, and as that pub- 



390 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



lication is at its last volume, ^ intend the follow- 
ing song, to the air above mentioned, for that 
work. 

If it does not suit you as an editor, you may be 
pleased to have verses to it that you can sing 
before ladies. 

" S-ae flaxen were her ringlets," <fcc. 

Not to compare small things with great, my 
taste in music is like the mighty Frederick of 
Prussia's taste in painting: we are told that he 
frequently admired what the connoisseurs de- 



taste in music must be inelegant and vulgar, be"- 
cause people of undisputed and cultivated taste 
can find no merit in my favourite tunes. Stil'I 
because I am cheaply pleased, is that any reason 
why I should deny myself that pleasure ? Many 
of our strathspeys, ancient and modern, give me 
the most exquisite enjoyment, where you and 
other judges would probably be showing disgust 
For instance, I am hist now making verses for 
" Rothiemurche's Rant," an air which put me in 
raptures; and in fact, unless I be pleased Avith 
the tune, I never can make verses to it. Here I 
have Clarke on my side, who is a judge that I will 
pit against any of you. "Eothiemurche," he 
says, "is in the air both original and beautiful ;'' 
and on his recommendation I have taken the 
first part of the tune for a chorus, and the fourth 
or last part for the song. I am but two stanzas 
deep in the work, and possibly you may think, 
and justly, that the poetry is as r little worth your 
attention as the music* 

I have begun, anew, " Let me in this ae night." 
Do you think that we ought to retain the old 
chorus? I think we must retain both the old 
chorus and the first stanza of the old son?. I do 
not altogether like the third line of the first 
stanza, but cannot alter it to please myself. 1 
am just three stanzas deep in it. Would you 
have the denouement to be successful or 
otherwise;— should she "let him in " or not. 

Did you not once propose ••The Sow's tail to 
Gcurdie," as an air for your work; I am quite 
delighted with it ; but I acknowledge that is no 
mark of its real excellence. I once set about 
verses for it. which I meant to be in the alter- 
nate way of a lover and his mistress chanting 
together. I have not the pleasure of knowing 
Mrs. Thomson's christian name, and yours, I am 
afraid, is rather burlesque for sentiment, else I 
had meant to have made you the hero and 
heroine of the little piece. 

How do you like the following epigram, which 
I wrote the other day on a lovely young girl's 
recovery from a fever? Dr. Maxwell was the 
physician who seemingly saved her from the 
grave, and to him I address the following: — 
"Maxwell, if merit here you crave," &c. 

God grant you patience with this stupid 
epistle ! 

NO. XXXVIII. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

I perceive the sprightly muse is now attendant 
upon her favourite poet, whose "wood-notes 
wild " are become as enchanting as ever. " She 
sa^ys she lo'es me best of a'," is one of the plea- 
santest table-songs I have seen ; and henceforth 
shall be mine when the song is going round. I'll 
give Cunningham a copy, he can more powerfully 
proclaim your merit. I am far from undervalu- 
ing your taste for the strathspey music ; on the 
contrary, I think it highly animating and agree- 

* In the original follow here two stanzas of a 
song, beginning, "Lassie wi' the lint-white 
locks ;" which will be found at full length after- 
wards. 



able, and that some of the strathspeys, when 
graced with such verses as yours, will make 
very pleasing songs, in the same way that rough 
Christians are tempered and softened by lovely 
woman, without whom, you know, they had 
been brutes. 

I am clear for having the " Sow tail," particu- 
larly as your proposed verses to it are so ex- 
tremely promising. Geordie, as you observe, is 
a name only fit for burlesque composition. Mrs. 
Thomson's name (Katharine) is not at all poeti- 
cal. Retain Jeanie, therefore, and make the 
other Jamie, or any other that sounds agree- 
ably. 

Your " Ca' the yewes" is a precious little mor- 
ceau. Indeed, I am perfectly astonished and 
charmed with the endless variety of your fancy. 
Here let me ask you, whether you never seri- 
ously turned your thoughts upon dramatic -writ- 
ing. That is a field worthy of your genius, in 
which it might shine forth in all its splendour. 
One or two successful pieces upon the London 
stage would make your fortune. The rage at 
present is for musical dramas: few or none of 
those which have appeared since the " Duenna" 
possesses much poetical merit ; there is little in 
the conduct of the fable, or in the dialogue, to 
interest the audience. They are chiefly vehicles 
for music and pageantry. I think you might pro- 
duce a comic opera, in 'three acts, which would 
live by the poetry, at the same time that it 
would be proper to take every assistance from 
her tuneful sister. Part of the songs, of course, 
would be to our favourite Scottish airs; the rest 
might be left with the London composer — Storace 
for Drury Lane, or Shield for Covent Garden ; 
both of them very able and popular musicians. 
I believe that interest and manoeuvring are 
often necessary to have a drama brought on; so 
it may be with the namby-pamby tribe of flowery- 
scribblers; but were you to address Mr. Sheri- 
dan himself by letter, and send him a dramatic 
piece, I am persuaded he would, for the honour 
of genius, give it a fair and candid trial. Ex- 
cuse me for obtruding these hints upon your 
consideration. 



NO. XXXIX. 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Ulh October, 1794. 
The last eight days have been devoted to the 
re-examination of the Scottish collections. I 
have read, and sung, and fiddled, and considered, 
till I am half blind and wholly stupid. The few 
airs I have added are enclosed. 

Peter Pindar has at length sent me all the 
songs I expected from him, which are in gene- 
ral elegant and beautiful. Have you heard of a 
London collection of Scottish airs and songs, 
just published by Mr. Ritson, an Englishman. I 
shall send you a copy. His introductory essay 
on the subject is curious, and evinces grea't 
reading and research, but it does not decide the 
question as to the origin of our melodies : though 
he shows clearly that Mr. Tytler, in his ingenious 
dissertation, has adduced no sort of proof of the 
hypothesis he wished to establish; and that his 
classification of the airs, according to the eras 
when they were composed, is mere fancy and 
conjecture. On John Pinkerton, Esq., he has 
no mercy ; but consigns him to damnation ! He 
snarls at my publication, on the score of Pindar 
being engaged to write songs for it; uncandidly 
and unjustly leaving it to be inferred, that the 
songs of Scottish writers had been sent a-packing 
to make room for Peter's! Of you he speaks 
with some respect, but gives you a passing hit 
or two, for daring to dress up a little some old 
foolish songs for the Museum. His sets of the 
Scottish airs are taken, he says, from the oldest 
collections and best authorities: many of them, 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH MR. THOMSON. 



191 



however, have such a strange aspect, and are 
so unlike the sets which are sung by every per- 
son of taste, old or young, in town or country, 
that we can scarcely recognise the features of 
our favourites. By going to the oldest collections 
of our music, it does not follow that we find the 
melodies in their original state. These melodies 
had been preserved, we know not how long, by 
oral communication, before being collected and 
printed : and as different persons sang the same 
air very differently, according to their accurate 
or confused recollection of it, so even supposing 
the first collectors to have possessed the indus- 
try, the taste and discernment to choose the best 
they could hear (which is far from certain), still 
it must evidently be a chance, whether the col- 
lections exhibit, any of the melodies in the state 
they were first composed. In selecting the 
melodies for my own collection, I have been as 
much guided by the living as by the dead. 
Where these differed, I preferred the sets that 
appeared to me the most simple and beautiful, 
and the most generally approved: and, without 
meaning any compliment to my own capability 
of choosing, or speaking of the pains I have 
taken, I flatter myself that my sets will be found 
equally freed from vulgar errors on the one hand, 
and affected graces on the other. 

NO. XL. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

19th October, 1794. 
My Dear Friend,— 

By this morning's post I have your list, and, 
in general, I highly approve of it. I shall, at 
more leisure, give you a critique on the whole. 
Clarke goes to your town by to-day's fly, and I 
wish you would call on him and take his opinion 
in general : yon know his taste is a standard. 
He will return here again in a week or two, so 
please do not miss asking for him. One thing I 
hope he will do, persuade you to adopt my fa- 
vourite, " Craigie-burn wood," in your selection : 
it is as great a favourite of his as of mine. The 
lady on whom it was made is one of the finest 
women in Scotland ; and, in fact (entre nous), is 
in a manner to me what Sterne's Eliza was to 
him— a mistress, a friend, or what you will, in 
the guileless simplicity of Platonic love. (Now 
don't put any of your squinting constructions on 
this, or Have any clishmaclaiver about it among 
our acquaintances.) I assure you that to my 
lovely friend you are indebted for many of your 
best songs of mine. Do you think that the 
sober, gin-horse routine of existence could in- 
spire a man with life, and love, and joy— could 
fire him with enthusiasm, or melt him with 
pathos, equal to the genius of your book?— No',! 
no !— Whenever I want to be more than ordinary 
in song— to be in some degree equal to your 
diviner airs,— do you imagine 1 last and pray for 
the divine emanation? Tout, au contr aire! I 
have a glorious recipe; the very one that for his 
own use was invented by the divinity of healing 
and poetry, when first he piped to the flocks of 
Admetus. I put myself in a regimen of admiring 
a fine woman; in proportion to the adorability 
of her charms, in proportion you are delighted 
with my verses. The lightning of her eve is the 
godhead of Parnassus, and the witchery of her 
smile the divinity of Helicon! 

To descend to business ; if von like my idea of 
"When she cam ben she bobbet," the following 
stanzas of mine, altered a little from what thev 
were formerly when set to another air, may per- 
haps do instead of worse stanzas. 

" O saw ye" my dear, my Phely ?" &c. 

Now for a few miscellaneous remarks. The 
"Posie" (in the Museum) is my composition: the 
air was taken down from Mrs. Bums' voice. 
It is well known in the West Country, but the 
old words are trash. By the bye, take a look at 



the tune again, and tell me if you do not think it 
is the original from which "Roslin Castle'' is 
composed. The second part., in particular, for 
the first two or three bars, is exactly the old air. 
"Strathallan's Lament" is mine; the music is 
by our right trusty and deservedly well-beloved 
Allan Masterton. "Donnocht-head," is not 
mine : I would give ten pounds it were. It ap- 
peared first in the Edinburgh Herald; and came 
to the editor of that paper with the Newcastle 
post-mark on it. "Whistle o'er the lave o't'" is 
mine: the music said to be by a John Bruce, a 
celebrated violin-player in Dumfries, about tho 
beginning of this century. This, I know, Bruce, 
who was an honest man, though a red wud 
Highlandman, constantly claimed it, and by all 
the old musical people here believed to be the 
author of it. 

"Andrew and his cutty gun." The song to 
which this is set in the Museum is mine; and 
was composed on Miss Enphemia Murray, of 
Lintrose, commonly and deservedly called the 
Flower of Strathmore. 

" How lang and dreary is the night." I met 
with some such words in a collection of songs 
somewhere, which I altered and enlarged ; and 
to please you and to suit your favourite air. I 
have taken a stride or two across my room, and 
have arranged it anew, as you will find on the 
other page. 

" How lang and dreary is the night," &c. 

Tell me how you like this. I differ from your 
idea of the expression of the tune. There is, to 
me, a great deal of tenderness in it. You cannot, 
in my opinion, dispense with a bass to your 
addenda airs. A lady of my acquaintance, a 
noted performer, plays and sings at the same 
time so charmingly, that I shall never bear to 
see any of her songs sent into the world as 
naked as Mr. Putson has done in his London col- 
lection. 

These English songs gravel me to death. I 
have not that command of the language that I 
have of my native tongue. I have been at 
"Duncan Gray," to dress it in English, but all 
I can do is deplorably stupid. For instance :— 
" Let not woman e'er complain," &c. 

Since the above, I have been out in the country 
taking a dinner with a friend, where I met with 
the lady whom I mentioned in the second page 
of this odds and ends of a letter. As usual, I got 
into song; and returning home, I composed the 
following: — 

" Sleep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest creature," 
&c. 

If you honour my verses by setting the air to 
them. I will vamp up the old song, and make it 
English enough to be understood. 

I enclose you a musical curiosity, an East In- 
dian air, which you would swear was a Scottish 
one. I know the authenticity of it, as the gentle- 
man who brought it over is a particular acquaint- 
ance of mine. Do preserve me the copy I send you, 
as it is the only one I have. Clarke has set a 
bass to it, and 1 intend putting it into the Musical 
Museum. Here follow the verses I intend for it: — 
" But lately seen in gladsome green," &c. 

I would be obliged to you if you would procure 
me a sight of Ri'tson's collection of En.glish songs 
which you mention in your letter. I will thank 
you for another information, and that as speedily 
as you please : whether this miserable drawling- 
hotch-potch epistle has not completely tired you 
of my correspondence. 

NO. XLI 

MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 27th October, 1794, 
I am sensible, my dear friend, that a genuine 
noet can no more exist without his mistress than 



192 



BURKS' POETICAL WORKS. 



his meat. T wish T knew the adorable she, whose 
bright eyes and witching smiles have so often 
enraptured the Scottish bard' that I might 
drink her sweet health when the toast is going 
ronnd, " Craigie-burn wood'' must certainly be 
adopted into my family, since she is the object of 
the song : but in the name of decency, I must 
beg a new chorus verse from you. •• O to be 
lying beyond thee, dearie," is perhaps a con- 
summation to be wished, but will not do for sing- 
ing in the company of ladies. The song in your 
last will do you lasting credit, and suit the 
respective airs charmingly. I am perfectly of your 
opinion with respect to the additional airs. The 
idea of sending them into the world naked as 
they were born was ungenerous. They must all 
he clothed and made decent by our friend Clarke. 

I find I am anticipated by the friendly Cunning- 
ham in sending youRitson's Scottish collection. 
Permit me, therefore, to present you with his 
English collection, which you will receive by the 
coach. I do not And his historical essay on 
Scottish song interesting. Your anecdotes' and 
miscellaneous remarks will, I am sure, be much 
more so. Allan has just sketched a charming 
design from Maggie Lauder. She is dancing with 
such spirit as to electrify the piper, who seems 
almost dancing too, while he is playing with the 
most exquisite glee. 

I am much inclined to get a small copy, and to 
have it engraved in the style of Ritson's prints. 

P.S.— Pray what do your anecdotes say con- 
cerning " Maggie Lauder ?" was she a real per- 
sonage, and of what rank? You would surely 
"spier for her if yon ca'd at Anstruther town." " 



NO. XLII. 
MB. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

November, 1704. 
Many thanks to you, my dear sir, for your pre- 
sent : it is a book of the utmost importance to 
me. I have yesterday begun my anecdotes, etc.. 
for your work. I intend drawing it up in the 
form of a letter to you, which will save me from 
the tedious dull business of systematic arrange- 
ment. Indeed, as all I have to say consists of 
unconnected remarks, anecdotes, scraps, old 
songs, &c, it would be impossible to give the 
work a beginning, a middle, and an end: which 
the critics insist to be absolutely necessary in a 
work. In my last, I told you my objections to the 
song you had selected for my lodging is on the 
cold ground. On my visit the other day to my 
fair Chloris (that is the name of the lovely 
goddess of my inspiration), she suggested an idea, 
which I, in my return from the visit, wrought 
into the following song— 
"My Chloris, mark how green the groves."' &c. 

How do you like the simplicity and tenderness 
of this pastoral ? I think it pretty well. 

I like you for entering so candidly and so kindly 
into the story of ma chere amie. I assure you, T 
was never more earnest in my life, than in the 
account of that affair which I sent you in my 
last. — Conjugal love is a passion which 1 deeply 
feel and highly venerate: but somehow, it doe's 
not make such a figure in poesy as that other 
species of the passion, 

Where love is liberty and nature law. 
Musically speaking, the first is an instrument of 
Avhich the gamut is scanty and confined, but the 
tones inexpressibly sweet: while the last has 
power equal to all the intellectual modulations 
of the human soul. Still, I am a very poet in 
my enthusiasm of the passion. The welfare and 
happiness of the beloved object is the first and 
inviolate sentiment that pervades my soul: and 
whatever pleasures I might wish for. or what- 
ever might he the raptures they would give 
me, yet, if they interfere with the first principle, 



it is having these pleasures at a dishonest price i 
and justice forbids, and generosity disdains, to 
purchase! 

Despairing of my own powers to give yon 
variety enough in English songs, I have been 
turning over old collections to pick out songs of 
which the measure is something similar to what 
I want: and, with a little alteration, so as to 
suit the rhyme of the air exactly, to give you 
them for your work. Where the songs have 
hitherto been hut little noticed, nor have ever 
been set to music, I think the shift a fair one. A 
song, which, under the same first verse, vou will 
find in Ramsay's " Tea-table Miscellany, I have 
cut down for an English dress to your "Dainty 
Davie," as follows — 

"It was the charming month of May," &c. 

You may think meanly of this, but take a look 
at the bombast original, and you will be sur- 
prised that I have made so much of it. I have 
finished my song to "Rothiemurchie's rant;" 
and you have Clarke to consult as to the set of 
the air for singing. 

"Lassie wi' the lint-white locks," etc. 

This piece has at least the merit of being a 
regular pastoral: the vernal morn, the summer 
noon, the autumnal evening, and the winter 
night, are regularly rounded. If you like it, well; 
if hot, I will insert it in the Museum. 

I am out of temper that yon should set so 
sweet, so tender an air, as. " Deil tak the wars," 
to the foolish old verses. You talk of the silline-s 
of " Saw ye my Father ;" by heavens, the odds are 
gold to brass ! Besides, the old song, though now 
pretty well modernized into the Scottish lan- 
guage, is. originally, and in the early editions, a 
bungling low imitation of the Scottish manner, 
by that genius, Torn D'Urfey ; so has no preten- 
sions to be a Scottish production. There is a 
pretty English song, by Sheridan, in the 
"Duenna," to this air. which is out of sight 
superior to D'Urfey's. It begins 

"When sable night each drooping plant re- 
storing." 

The air. if I understand the expression of it pro- 
perly, is the very native language of simplicity, 
tenderness and love. I have again gone over my 
song to the tune as follows. 

Now for my English song to "Nancy's to the 
Greenwood," etc. 

There is an air, "The Caledonian Hunt's 
delight." to which I wrote, a song that you will 
find in Johnson. " Ye banks and braes o' bonnie 
Doon;" this, sir, I think, might find a place 
among your hundred, as Lear says of nights. 
Do von know the history of the air? It is curious 
enough. A good many years ago, Mr. James 
Miller, writer in your town, a gentleman whom 
possiblv vou know, was in company w^ith our 
our friend Clarke ; and talking of Scottish music, 
Miller expressed an ardent ambition to be able to 
compose a Scots air. Mr. Clarke, partly byway 
of joke, told him to keep to the black keys of the 
harpischord. and preserve some kind of rhythm ; 
and he would infallibly compose a Scots air. Cer- 
tain it is, that in a few days, Mr. Miller produced 
the rudiments of an air, which Mr. Clarke, with 
some touches and corrections, fashioned into the 
tune in question. Ritson, you know, has the 
same storv of the "black keys:" but this ac- 
count, which I have just given you, Mr. Clarke 
informed me of several years ago. Now, to 
to show you how difficult it is to trace the origin 
or our airs, I have heard it repeatedly asserted 
that this was an Irish air: nay. I met with an 
Irish gentleman who affirmed that he had heard 
it in Ireland among the old women; while, on 
the other hand, a countess informed me that the 
first person who introduced the air into this 
country was a baronet's lady of her acquain- 
tance, who took down the note's from an itinerant 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH MR. THOMSON. 



piper in the Isle of Man. How difficult then to 
ascertain the truth respecting our poesy and 
music ! I, myself, have latelv seen a couple of 
ballads sung through the streets of Dumfries, 
with my name at the head of them as the author, 
though"it was the first time I had ever seen 
them. 

I thank you for admitting "Craigie-burn 
wood;" and I shall take care to furnish you with 
a new chorus. In fact, the chorus was not my 
work, but a part of some old verses to the air. If 
I catch mvself in a more than ordinarily pro- 
pitious moment. I shall write a new "Craigie- 
bnrn wood" altogether. My heart is much in the 
theme. 

I am ashamed, my dear fellow, to make the 
request; 'tis dunning your generosity; but in a 
moment when I had "forgotten whether I was 
rich or poor, I promised Chloris a copy of your 
songs. It wrings my honest pride to write you 
this : but an Ungracious request is doubly so, by 
a tedious apology. To make you some amends 
as soon as 1 have extracted the necessary infor- 
mation out of them, I will return you JRitsons 
volumes. 

The lady is not a little proud that she is to 
make so distinguished a figure in your collec- 
tion, and I am. net a little proud that I have it in 
my power to please her so much. Lucky it is 
for your patience that my paper is done for when 
I am in a scribbling humour. I know not when 
to give over. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

loth November, 1794. 
My Good Sik,— 

Since receiving your last, I have had another 
interview with Mr. Clarke, and a long consulta- 
tion. He thinks the " Caledonian Hunt" is more 
bacchanalian than amorous in its nature, and 
recommends it to you to match the air accord- 
ingly. Pray did it ever occur to yon how pecu- 
liarly well the Scottish airs are adapted for 
verses, in the form of a dialogue? The first part 
of the air is generally low, and suited for aman's 
voice, and the second part, in many instances, 
cannot be sung at concert-pitch, but by a female 
voice. A song thus performed makes" an agree- 
able variety, but few of ours are written in this 
form: I wish you would think of it in some of 
those that remain. The only one of the kind you 
have sent me is admirable, and will be a uni- 
versal favourite. 

The verses for "Rothiemurchie" are so sweetly 
pastoral, ami your serenade to Chloris, for "Deil 
tak the wars," so passionately tender, that I 
have sung myself into raptures with them. 
Your song for "My lodging is on the cold 
ground" is likewise a diamond of the first water ; 
I am quite dazzled and delighted by it. Some of 
your Chlorises, I suppose, have flaxen hair, from 
your partiality for this colour; else we differ 
about it ; for I should scarcely conceive a woman 
to be a beauty, on reading that she had lint- 
white-locks ! 

'• Farewell thou stream that winding flows," I 
think excellent, but it is much too serious to 
come after "Nancy:" at least, it would seem an 
incongruity to provide the same air with merrv 
Scottish and melancholy English verses! The 
more that the two sets of verses resemble each 
other in their general character, the better. 
Those you have manufactured for " Dainty 
Davie" will answer charmingly. I am happv to 
find you have begun your anecdotes. I care not 
how long they be,for*it is impossible that anv- 
thing from your pen can be tedious. Let me be- 
seech you to use no ceremony in telling me when 
you wish to present any ef your friends with the 



songs: the next carrier will bring you three 
copies, and you are as welcome to twenty as to a 
pinch of snuff. 

NO. XLIV. 

MR BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

19tfi November, 1794. 
Yorj see, my dear sir, what a punctual corre- 
spondent I "am ; though indeed you may thank 
yourself for the tedium of my letters as vou have 
so flattered me on my horsemanship with my 
favourite hobby, and have praised the grace of 
his ambling so much, that I am scarcely ever off 
his back. For instance, this morning, though a 
keen blowing frost, in my walk before breakfast, 
I finished my duet which you were pleased to 
praise so much. Whether I have uniformly suc- 
ceeded, I will not say ; but here it is for you, 
though it is not an hour old. 

"O Philly, happy be that day," &c. 

Tell me honestly how you like it: and point out 
whatever you think faulty. 

I am much pleased with your idea of singing 
our songs in alternate stanzas, and regret that 
you did not hint it to me sooner. In those that 
remain, I shall have it in my eve. I remember 
your objections to the name.'PJiilly ; but it is the 
common abbreviation of Phillis. Sally, the only 
name that suits, has. to my ear, a vulgarity 
about it which unfits it for anything but bur- 
lesque. The legion of Scottish poetasters of the 
day, whom your brother editor, Mr. Ritson, 
ranks with me, as my coevals, has always mis- 
taken vulgarity for simplicity; whereas simpli- 
city is as much eloignee from vulgarity, on the 
one hand, as from affected point and puerile con- 
ceit, on the other. 

I agree with you as to the air, "Cragie-burn 
wood," that a chorus would in some degree spoil 
the effect, and shall certainly have none in my 
projected song to it. It is not, however, a case 
in point with "Rothiemurchie;" there, as in 
" Roy's Wife of Aldivalloch," a chorus goes 
to my taste well enough. As to the chorus 
going first, that is the case with " Roy's Wife," 
as well as "Rothiemurchie." In fact, in the 
first part of both tunes, the rhyme is so peculiar 
and irregular, and on that irregularity depends 
so much of their beauty, that we must e'en take 
them with all their wildness, and humour the 
verse accordingly. Leaving out the starting note, 
in both tunes, has, I think, an effect that no 
regularity could counterbalance the want of. 



Try and compare with 

Roy's wife of Aldivalloch. 
Lassie wi' the lint-white locks. 

Does not the tameness of the prefixed syllable 
strike you? In the last case, with the true furore 
of genius, you strike at once into the wild origi- 
nality of the air; whereas, in the first insipid 
method, it is like the grating-screw of the pins 
before the fiddle is brought into tune. This is 
my taste ; if I'm wrong, 1 beg pardon of the cog- 
noscenti. 

"The Caledonian Hunt "is so charming, that 
it would make any subject in a song go down: 
but pathosis certainly its native tongue. Scottish 
Bacchanalians we certainly want, though the 
few we have are excellent. For instance, 
"Tocllin name " is, for wit and humour, an un- 
paralleled composition: and "Andro and his 
cutty gun " is the work of a master. By the way, 
are you not quite vexed to think that those men 
of genius, for such they certainly were, who 
composed our fine Scottish lyrics, should be un- 
known! It has given me many a heartache. 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Apropos to Bacchanalian songs in Scottish, I 
composed one yesterday for an air I liked much 
— "Lumps o' pudding." 

'• Contented with little, and cantie wi' mair," &c. 

If you do not relish the air, I will send it to 
Johnson. 

Since yesterday's penmanship, I have framed 
a couple of English songs to -'Roy's wife.'' You 
will allow me that, in this instance, my English 
corresponds in sentiment with the Scottish. 

" Canst thon leave me thus, my Katy ?" &c. 

"Well! I think this, to be done in two or three 
turns across my room, and with two or three 
lunches of Irish Blackguard, is not so far amiss. 
You see I am determined to have my quantum 
of applause from somebody. 

Tell my friend Allan (for I am sure that we 
only want the trifling circumstance of being 
known to one another, to be the best friends on 
earth) that I much suspect he has. in his plates, 
mistaken the figure of the stock and horn. I 
have, at last, gotten one ; but it is a very rude 
instrument. It is composed of three parts; the 
stock which is the hinder thigh-bone of a sheep, 
such as you see in a mutton-ham; the horn, 
which is a common Highland cow's horn, cut off 
at the smaller end, until the aperture be large 
enough to admit the stock to be pushed up 
through the horn, until it be held by the thicker 
end of the thigh-bone : and lastly, an oaken reed 
exactly cut and notched like that which you 
see everv shepherd-bov have, when the corn- 
stems are green and full-grown. The reed is not 
made fast in the bone, but is held by the lips, 
and plays loose in the smaller end of the stock; 
while the stock, with the horn hanging on its 
larger end. is held by the hands in playing. The 
stock has six or seven ventiges on the upper 
side, and one back-venticre, like the common 
flute. This of mine was made by a man from the 
braes of Athole, and is exactly what the shep- 
herds are wont to use in this country. 

However, either it is not quite properlv bored 
in the holes, or else we have not the art of 
blowing it rightly ; for we can make little use of 
it. If Mr. Allan chooses. I will send him a sight 
of mine ; as 1 took one myself to be a kind of 
brotber-brush with him. " Pride in Poets is nae 
sin ;" and. I will say it, that 1 look on Mr. Allan 
and Mr. Burns to be the only genuine and real 
painters of Scottish custom in the world. 



NO. XLV. 

MB, THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

28th November, 1794. 
I acknowledge, my dear sir, you are not only 
the most punctual, but the most delectable, cor- 
respondent lever met with. To attempt flatter- 
ing you never entered my head ; the truth is, 1 
look back with surprise at my impudence, in so 
frequently nibbling at lines and couplets of your 
incomparable lyrics, for which, perhaps, if you 
had served me right, you would have sent me to 
the devil. On the contrary, however, you have 
all along condescended to invite my criticism 
with so much courtesv. that it ceases to be 
wonderful, if I have sometimes given myself the 
airs of a reviewer. Your last bndget demands 
unqualified praise : all tire songs are charming, 
but the duet is a chef d'ceurre. "Lumps of 
pudding" shall certainly make one of my family 
dishes: yon have cooked it so capitally, that it 
will plea'se all palates. Do give us a few more 
of this cast, when you find yourself in good 
spirits ; these convivial songs are more wanted 
than those of the amorous "kind, of which we 
have great choice. Besides, one does not often 
meet with a siDger capable of eivjng the proper 



effect to the latter, while the former are easily 
sung, and acceptable to everybody. I participate 
in your regret that the authors of some of out- 
best songs are unknown : it is provoking to 
every admirer of genius. 

I mean to have a picture painted from your 
beautiful ballad, " The Soldier's Return." to be 
engraved for one of my frontispieces. The most 
interesting point of time appears to me when 
she first recognises her ain dear "Willy, "She 
gaz'd, she redden'd like a rose." The three 
lines immediately following are no doubt more 
impressive on the reader's feelings; but were 
the painter to fix on these, then you'll observe 
the animation and anxiety of her countenance is 
gone, and he could only represent her fainting 
in the soldier's arms. But I submit the matter 
to you, and beg your opinion. 

Allan desires me to thank you. for your 
accurate description of the stock and horn, and 
for the very gratifying compliment you pay him, 
in considering him worthy of standing in a" niche 
by the side of Burns in the Scottish Pantheon. 
He has seen the rude instrument you describe, 
so does not want you to send it ; but wishes to 
know whether you believe it to have ever been 
generally used as a musical pipe by the Scottish 
shepherds, and when, and in what part of the 
country chiefly. I doubt much if it was capable 
of anything but routing and roaring. A friend 
of mine says, he remembers to have seen one in 
his younger days (made of wood instead of your 
bone), and that the sound was abominable. 

Do not, 1 beseech you, return any books. 

NO. XLVI. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Becembe?'. 1794. 
It is. I assure von. the pride of my heart to do 
anything to forward your book ; and as I agree 
with vou that the Jacobite song in the Museum, 
to " There'll ne'er be peace till Jamie comes 
name," would not so well consort with Peter 
Pindar's excellent love-song to the air, I have 
just framed for you the following :— 
••Now in her green mantle blythe Nature 
arrays," <toc. 

no. xlvii. 
MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Januanj, 1795. 
I feak for my songs: however, a few may 
please, yet originality is a coy feature in com- 
position" and, in a multiplicity of efforts in the 
same style, disappear altogether. For these 
three thousand years, we poetic folks have been 
describing the spring, for instance; and as the 
spring continues the same, there must soon be a 
sameness in the imagery, Ac , of these said 
rhvming folks. 

A great critic, Aiken, on songs, says, that love 
and wine are the exclusive themes fur song 
writing. The following is on neither subject. 
and. consequentlv, is no song; but will be 
allowed, I think, to be two or three pretty good 
prose thoughts, inverted into rhyme. 

" Is there for honest poverty," Ac. 

T do not give you the foregoing song for your 
book, but merely by way of vivela bagatelle; for 
the piece is not really poetry. How will the 
following do for " Craigie-burn wood ?" 

" Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn," Ac. 

xo. XLVTII. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, 30th Jan. 1795. 
Mr Dear Sir.— 
I thank von heartilv for "Nannie's awa," as 
well as for " Craigie-burn." which I think a very 
comely pair. Your observation op the nifticulty 



CORRE-SPONDENOE tVTTH MR. THOMSON. 



195 



01 original writing in a number of efforts, in the 
same style, strikes me very forcibly ; and it has 
again and again excited my wonder to find yon 
continuallv "surmounting this difficulty, in the 
many delightful songs you have sent me. Your 
■vive 'la bagatelle, song, "For a' that," shall un- 
doubtedly be included in my list. 



MR. 



NO. XLIX. 

BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 



Ecclefechan, 1th February, 1795. 
My Dear Thomson,— 
You cannot have any idea of the predicament 
in which I write to you. In the course of my 
duty as supervisor (in which capacity I have 
acted of late), I came yesternight to this unfortu- 
nate, wicked little village. I have gone forward, 
but snows of ten feet deep have impeded my 
progress: I have tried to " gae back the gate I 
cam again," but the same obstacle has shut me 
up within insuperable bars. To add to my mis- 
fortune, since dinner, a scraper has been tor- 
turing catgut, in sounds that would have in- 
sulted the dying agonies of a sow, under the 
hands of a butcher, and thinks himself, on that 
very account, exceeding good company. In fact, 
I have been in a dilemma, either to get drunk, 
to forget these miseries ; or to hang myself, to 
get rid of them: like a prudent man (a cha- 
racter congenial to my every thought, word, and 
deed), I, of two evils, have chosen the least, and 
am very drunk, at your service ! 

I wrote you yesterday from Dumfries. I had 
not time then to tell you all I wanted to say; 
and heaven knows, at present, I have not ca- 
pacity. 

Do you know an air— I am sure you must know 
it, — '-'We'll gang na mair to yon town?" I think, 
in slowish time, it would make an excellent 
song. I am highly delighted with it ; and if you 
should think it worthy of your attention, 1 have 
a fair dame in my eye to whom I would conse- 
crate it. 

As I am just going to bed, I wish you a good 
night. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

26th February, 1795. 
I have to thank you, my dear sir, for two 
epistles, one containing -'Let me in this ae 
night ;" and the other from Ecclefechan, proving, 
that drunk or sober, your " mind is never 
muddy." You have displayed great address in 
the above song. Her answer is excellent, and 
at the same time takes away the indelicacy that 
otherwise would have attached to his en- 
treaties. I like the song, as it now stands, very 
much. 

I had hopes yon would be arrested some days 
at Ecclefechan, and be obliged to beguile the 
tedious forenoons by song-making. It will give 
me pleasure to receive the verses you intend 
for, "O wat ye wha's in this town." 



MR 



NO. LI. 

THOMSOM TO MR. BURNS. 



You must not think, my good sir, that I have 
any intention to enhance the value of my gift, 
when I say, in- justice to the ingenious and 
worthy artist, that the design and execution of 
"The Cotter's Saturday Night" is, in my 
opinion, one of the happiest productions o'f 
Allan's pencil. I shall be grievously disappointed 
if you are not quite pleased with it. 



The figure intended for your portrait I think 
strikingly like you, as far as I can remember 
your phiz. This should make the piece interest- 
ing to your family every way. Tell me whether 
Mrs. Burns finds you out among the figures. 

I cannot express the feeling of admiration 
with which I have read your pathetic " Address 
to the wood4ark," your elegant "Panegyric on 
Caledonia," and your affecting verses on 
" Chloris' illness." Every repeated perusal of 
these gives new delight. The other song to 
"Laddie, lie near me," though not equal to 
these, is very pleasing. 



MR. BURL'S TO MR. THOMSON. 

May, 1794. 

Ten thousand thanks for your elegant present ; 
though I am ashamed of the value of it, being 
bestowed on a man who has not by any means 
merited such an instance of kindness. I have 
shown it to two or three judges of the first 
abilities here, and they all agree with me in 
classing it as a first-rate production. My phiz 
is "sae kenspeckle," that the very joiner's ap- 
prentice whom Mrs. Burns employed to break 
up the parcel (I was out of town that day) knew 
it at once. My most grateful compliments to 
who has honoured my rustic muse so 



Allan., , 

much with his masterly pencil. One strange 
coincidence is, that the little one who is making 
the felonious attempt on the cat's tail, is the 
most striking likeness of " ill-deedic damn'd, 
wee. rumble-garie urchin" of mine, whom, from 
that propensity to witty wickedness and manfu' 
mischief, which even at twa daysauld I foresaw 
would form the striking features of his disposi- 
tion, I named Willie Nicol, after a certain friend 
of mine, who is one of the masters of a grammar- 
school in a city which shall be nameless. 

Give the enclosed epigram to my much-valued 
friend Cunningham, and tell him that on "Wed- 
nesday I go to visit a friend of his, to whom his 
friendly partiality in speaking of me, in a 
manner introduced me— I mean, a well known 
military and literary character— Colonel Dirom. 

You do not tell me how you liked my two last 
songs. Are they condemned 'i 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

lZlh May, 1795. 
It gives me great pleasure to find that you are 
all so well satisfied with Mr. Allan's production. 
The chance resemblance of your little fellow, 
whose promising disposition appeared so very 
early, and suggested whom he should be named 
after, is curious enough. I am acquainted with 
that person, who is a prodigy of learning and 
genius, and a pleasant fellow, 'though no saint. 

You really make me blush when you tell me 
you have not merited the drawing from me. I 
do not think I can ever repay you, or sufficiently 
esteem and respect you for the liberal and kind 
manner in which you have entered into the 
spirit of my undertaking, which could not have 
been perfected without you : so I beg you would 
not make a fool of me again, by speaking of 
obligation. 

I like your last two songs very much, and am 
happy to find you are in such a high fit of 
poetizing. Long may it last. Clarke has made 
a fine pathetic air to Mallet's superlative ballad 
of " William and Margaret," and is to give it to 
rue, to be enrolled among the elect 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKs. 



ME. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 



Here goes what I think is an improvement. 

O whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad ; 

O whistle and I'll come to ye, m'v lad ; 

Tho' father and mother, and a' should gae mad, 

Thy Jeany will venture wi' ye, my lad. 

In fact, a fair dame at whose shrine I, the 
priest of the Nine, offer up the incense of Par- 
nassus; a dame whom the Graces have attired 
in witchcraft, and whom the Loves have armed 
with lightning, a Fair One. herself the heroine 
of the song, insists on the amendment; and dis- 
pute her commands if you dare ! 

Song. 

" this is no my ain lassie," <fcc. 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Edinburgh, Aug. 3rd, 1705. 
Dear Sir,— 

This wiil he delivered to you by a Dr. Brian- 
ton, who has read vour works, and pants for the 
honour of your acquaintance. I do not know 
the gentleman, buthis friend who applied to me 
fortius introduction, being an excellent young 
man, I have no doubt he is worthy of all accep- 
tation. 

My eyes have jnst been gladdened, and my 
mind feasted, with vmir last packet— full of plea- 
sant things indeed. What an imagination is 
yours! It is superfluous to toll you tbai I am de- 
lighted with all the three songs, as well as your 
elegant and tender verses to Chloris. 

I am sorry you should be induced to alter " O 
whistle and I'll come to ye, my lad," to the 
prosaic line, "Thv Jeanv will venture wi' ye. my 
lad." I must be permitted to saw that I do not 
think the latter cither reads or sings as well as 
the former. I wish, therefore, you would in my 
name petition the charming Jeany, whoever she 
be, to let the line remain unaltered. 



MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

February, 1700. 
Many thanks, my dear sir. for your handsome, 
elegant present, to Mrs. B . and for my re- 
maining volume of P. Pindar. Peter is a de- 
lightfuf fellow, and a first favourite of mine. I 
am much pleased with your idea of publishing a 
collection of our songs in octavo with etchings. 
I am extremelv willing to lend everv assistance 
in my power. "The Irish airs I shall cheerfully 
undertake the task of finding verses for. 

I have already, vou know, equipped three with 
words, and the other dav I strung up a kind of 
rhapsody to another Hibernian melody, which I 
admire much. 

" Awa wi' your witchcraft o' beauty's alarms," 
etc. 

If this will do. vou have now four of my Irish 
engagement. Iii my by-past songs. 1 dislike one 
thing: the name Chloris— I meant it as the fic- 
titious name of a certain lady: but. on second 
thoughts, it is a high incongruity to have a Greek 
appellation to a Scottish pastoral ballad —Of 
this, and some things else, in my next : I have 
more amendments to propose.— What yon once 
mentionedof " flaxen locks" is just: theV cannot 
enter into an elegant description of beauty.— Of 
this also again.— God bless youl 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

April, 1796. 

Your "Hey for a lass wi' a tocher" is a most 
excellent song, and with you the subject is some- 
thing new indeed. It is the first time I have 
seen you debasing the god of soft desire into an 
amateur of acres and guineas. 

I am happy to find you approve of my proposed 
octavo edition. Allah has designed and etched 
about twenty plates, and I am to have my 
choice of them for that work. Independently of 
the Hogarthian humour with whicli they abound, 
they exhibit the character and costume of the 
Scottish peasantry with inimitable felicity. In 
this respect, he himself says, they will far ex- 
ceed the acquatinta plates he did for the 
"Gentle Shepherd," because, in the etching, he 
sees clearly what he is doing, but not so with 
the acquatinta, which he could not manage to 
his mind. 

The Dutch boors of Ostade are scarcely more 
characteristic and natural than the Scottish 
figures in those etchings. 

NO. LVIII. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

April, 1790. 
Alas, my dear Thomson, I fear it will be some 
time ere I tunc my lyre again! "By Babel's 
streams I have sat and wept" almost ever since 
I wrote you last ; I have only known existence 
by the pressure of the heavy hand of sickness ; 
aiid have collided time by the repercussions of 
pain! Rheumatism, cold, and fever, have 
formed to me a terrible combination! I close 
my eyes in misery, and open them without hope 
I look on the vernal day, and say with poor 
Fcrgusson— 
Say wherefore has an indulgent heaven, 
Light to the comfortless and wretched given? 
This will be delivered to vou by a .Air-, flys- 
lop, landlady of the " Globe "'tavern here, which 
for ilie.-e many years has been my howf. and 
where our friend Clarke and I have had many a 
merry squeeze. I am highly delighted with Mr. 
Allan's etchings. '■ Woo'd and married and a'," 
is admirable ! The grouping is beyond all praise. 
The expression of the figures, conformable to 
the story in the ballad, is absolutely faultles 
perfection. I next admire "Tnrnimspike." 
What I like least is, "Jennie said to Jockie." 
Besides the female being in her appearance 
. . . if you take her stooping into account, she 
is at Past two inches taller than her lover. Poor 
Cleghorn ! I sincerely sympathise with him! 
Happy 1 am to think he "has a well-grounded 
hope bf health and enjoyment in this world. As 
for me— but that is a . . . subject. 

NO. LIX. 
MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

4th May. 1796. 
I need not tell you. my good sir, what concern 
the receipt of your last gave me, and how much 
I sympathise in your sufferings. But do net, I 
beseech you, give yourself up to despondency, 
nor speak the language of despair. The vigour 
of your constitution, I trust, will soon set you on 
your feet again : and then, it is to be hoped, you 
will see the wisdom and the necessity of taking 
care of a life se valuable to your' family, to 
your friends, and to the world. 

Trusting that your next will bring agreeable 
accounts of your convalescence, and returning 
good spirits, I remain, with sincere regard, 
yours. 

P.S.— Mrs. Hyslop, I doubt not, delivered the 
gold seal to you in good condition. 



CORRESPONDENCE WITH MR. THOMSON. 



197 



SO. LX. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

My Dear Sir,— ' 
I once mentioned to you an air which I have 
long admitted, "Here's a health to them that's 
;uva. limey," but I forget if you took any notice 
of it. 1 have just been trying to suit it with 
verses; and I beg leave to recommend the air to 
your attention once more. I have only begun it. 
"Here's a health to ane I lo'e dear,'' &c. 



NO. LXI. 

MR, BURNS TO MR. THOMSON. 

Tins will be delivered by a Mr. Lewars, a young 
fellow of uncommon merit. As he will be a day 
or two in town, you will have leisure, if you 
chose, to write me by him ; and if you have 
a spare half-hour to spend with him, I shall 
place your kindness to my account. I have no 
copies of the songs I have sent you, and I have 
taken a fancy to review them all. and possibly 
may mend some of them ; so when yon have 
complete leisure, I .will thank you for either the 
originals or copies. I had rather be the author 
of five well-written songs than of ten other- 
wise. I have great hopes that the genial in- 
fluence of the approaching summer will set me 
to rights, but as yet 1 cannot boast of returning 
health. I have now reason to believe that my 
complaint is a flying gout : a sad business ! 

Do let me know how Cleghorn is, and remem- 
ber me to him. 

This should have been delivered to you a 
month ago. I am still very poorly, but should 
like much to hear from you." 



NO. LSI I. 

MR. BURNS TO MR. THOMSON, 

mh July, 1796. 
After all my boasted independence, curst neces- 
sity compels me to implore you for five pounds. 
A cruel . . . . of a haberdasher, to whom I 



owe an account, taking it into his head that I 
am dying, has commenced a process, and will 
infallibly put me into gaol. Do, for God's sake, 
send me that sum, and that by return of post. 
Forgive me this earnestness, but the horrors of 
a gaol have made me half-distracted. I do not 
ask all this gratuitously: for, upon returning 
health, I hereby promise and engage to furnish 
you with five pounds' worth of the neatest song- 
genius you have seen. I tried my hand on 
■• Rothiemurchie " this morning. The measure 
is so difficult, that it is impossible to infuse much 
genius into the lines. They are on the other 
side. Forgive, forgive me ! 

" Fairest maid on Devon hanks."' 



MR. THOMSON TO MR. BURNS. 

Mr Dear Sir,— nth July, 1796. 

Ever since I received your melancholy letter 
by Mrs. Hylsop. I have been ruminating inwhat 
manner I" could endeavour to alleviate your 
sufferings. Again and again I thought of a 
pecuniary offer, but the recollection of one of 
your letters on this subject, and the fear of 
offending your independent spirit, checked my 
resolution. I thank you, heartily, therefore, for 
the frankness of your letter of the 11th, and 
with great pleasure enclose a draft for the very 
sum I proposed sending. Would I were the 
Chancellor of the Exchequer but for one day, 
for your sake. 

Pray, my good sir, is it not possible for you to 
muster a volume of poetry? If too much trouble 
to you in the present state of your health, some 
literary friend might be found here, who would 
select and arrange from your manuscripts, and 
take upon him tlie task of Editor. In the mean- 
time it could be advertised to be published by 
subscription. Think of this, my dear Burns, and 
do not reckon me intrusive with my advice. 
Yon are too well convinced of the respect and 
friendship I bear you, to impute anything I say 
to an unworthy motive. Yours faithfully. 

The verses to "Rothiemurchie" will answer 
finely. I am happy to see you can still tune your 
lyre. 



APPENDIX. 



It may gratify curiosity to know some particu- 
lars of the history of the preceding Poems, on 
which the celebrity of our Bard has been 
hitherto founded: and with this view the fol- 
lowing extract is made from a letter of Gilbert 
Barns, the brother of our Poet, and his friend 
and confidant from his earliest years. 



Mossgiel, 2nd April, 1798. 
Dear Sir,— 

Your letter of the 14th of March I received in 
due course, but from the hurry of the season, 
have been hitherto hindered from answering it. 
1 will now try to give you what satisfaction I 
can in regard to the particulars you mention. I 
cannot pretend to be very accurate in respect to 
the dates of the poems, but none of them, except 
"Winter, a Dirge," (which was a Juvenile pro- 
duction.) "The death and dying words of poor 
Mallie," and some of the songs, were composed 
before the year 1784. The circumstances of the 
poor sheep were pretty ranch as he has described 
them; he had. partlv hv wav of frolic bought a 
ewe and two lambs from a neighbour, and she 
was tethered in a field adjoining the house at 
Lochlie. He and I were going out with our 
teams, and our two younger brothers to drive 
for us, - at raid-day, when Hugh Wilson, a curious- 
looking, awkward boy, clad in ]. [aiding, came to 
ns, with much anxiety in his face, with the in- 
formation that the ewe had entangled herself in 
the tether, and was lying in the ditch. Robert 
was much tickled with Ilughoc's appearance 
and postures on the occasion. PoorMailie was 
set to rights; and when we returned from the 
plough in the evening, lie repeated tome her 
death and dying words pretty much in the wav 
they now stand. 

Among the earliest of his poems was the 
" Epistle to Davie." Robert often composed 
without a regular plan. When anything made 
a strong impression on his mind, so as to rouse it 
to poetic exertion, he would give wav to the im- 
pulse, and embody the thought in rhyme. If he 
hit on two or three stanzas to please him, he 
would then think of proper introductory, con- 
necting, and concluding stanzas; hence the 
middle of a poem was often first produced. It 
was, I think, in summer. 1784. when in the in- 
terval of harder labour, he and I were weeding 
in the garden (kailyard), that he repeated to me 
the principal part of this epistle. I believe the 
first idea of Robert's becoming an author was 
started on this occasion. I was much pleased 
with the epistle, and said to him I was of opinion 
it would bear being printed, and that it would 
be well received by people of taste; that I 
thought it at least equal, if not superior, to many 
of Allan Ramsay's epistles, and that the merit of 
these, and much other Scotch poetry, seemed to 
consist principally in the knack of the expres- 
sion— but here, there was a strain of interesting 
sentiment, and the Scotticism of the language 
scarcely seemed affected, but appeared to be the 
natural language of the poet: that, besides, 
there was certainly some novelty in a poet point- 



ing out the consolations that were in store for 
him when he should go a-begging. Robert 
seemed very well pleased with my criticism ; 
and we talked of sending it to some magazine, 
but as this plan afforded no opportunity of know- 
ing how it would take, the idea was dropped. 

It was, I think, in the winter following, as we 
were going together with carts for coal to the 
family fire (and I could yet point out the par- 
ticular spot), that the author first repeated tome 
the " Address to the Deil." The curious idea of 
such an address was suggested to him, by run- 
ning over his mind the many ludicrous accounts 
and representations we have, from various quar- 
ters, of this august personage. " Death and Dr. 
Hornbook," though not published in the Kilmar- 
nock edition, was produced early in the year 
17,^. The schoolmaster of Tarbolton parish, to 
eke up the scanty subsistence allowed to that 
useful class of men. had set up a shop of grocery 
goods. Having accidentally fallen in with some 
medical books, and become most hobby-horsi- 
cally attached to the study of medicine, he had 
added the sale of a few medicines to his little 
trade. He had got a shop-hill printed, at the 
bottom of which, overlooking his own incapa- 
city, lie had advertised, that ■' Advice would be 
given in common disorders at tin; shop, gratis.'' 
Robert was at a mason-meeting, in Tarbolton, 
when the ••Dominie" unfortunately made too 
ostentatious a display of his medical skill. As 
he parted in the evening from this mixture of 
pedantry and physic, at the place where he 
describes his meeting with Death, one of those 
floating ideas of apparition, he mentions in his 
letter to Dr. Moore, crossed his mind : this set 
him to work for the rest of the way home. These 
circumstances he related when he repeated the 
verses to me next afternoon, its I was holding 
the plough, and he was letting the water off the 
field beside me. The "Epistle to John Lapraik" 
was produced exactlv on the occasion described 
bv the author. He' says in that poem, "On 
fasten e'en he had a rockin. ' I believe he has 
omitted the word rocking in the glossary. It is 
a term derived from those primitive times, 
when the country-women employed their spare 
hours in spinning on the rock, or distaff. This 
simple instrument is a very portable one. and 
well fitted to the social inclination of meeting In 
a neighbour's house; hence the phrase of going 
a-rocking, or with the rock. As the connection 
the phrase had with the implement was forgot- 
ten when the rock gave way to the spinning- 
wheel, the phrase came to be used by both sexes 
on social occasions, and men talk of going with 
their rocks as well as women. 

It was one of these rockings at our house, when 
we had twelve or fiteen young people with their 
rods, that Lapraik's song, beginning—" When I 
upon thv bosom lean," was sung, and we were 
informed who was the author. Upon this, 
Robert wrote his first epistle to Lapraik; and 
his second in replv to his answer. The verses 
to the " Mouse and Mountain Daisy" were com- 
posed on the occasions mentioned, and while the 
author was holding the plough. I could point out 
the particular spot where each was composed. 



APPENDIX. 



199 



Holding the plough- was a favourite situation 
with Piobert for poetic compositions, and some 
of his best verses were produced while he was at 
that exercise. Several of the poems were pro- 
duced for the purpose of bringing forward some 
favourite sentiment of the author. He used to 
remark to me, that lie could not conceive a more 
mortifying picture of numan life, than a man 
seeking work. In casting about in his mind how 
this sentiment might be brought forward, the 
elegy, "Man was made to Mourn, ' was com- 
posed. Robert had frequently remarked to me, 
that he thought there was something peculiarly 
venerable in the phrase, " Let us worship God," 
used by a decent sober head of a family introdu- 
cing family worship. To this sentiment of the 
author the world is indebted for the " Cotter's 
Saturday Night."' The hint of the plan, and title 
of the poem, Avere taken from Fergusson-s 
" Farmer's Ingle." When Robert had not some 
pleasure in view in which I was not thought fit 
to participate, we used frequently to walk to- 
gether when the weather was favourable on the 
Sunday afternoons (those precious breathing- 
times to the labouring part of the community), 
and enjoyed such Sundays as would make one 
regret to see their number abridged. It was in 
one of these works that I first had the pleasure 
of hearing the author repeat the " Cotter's 
Saturday Night." 1 do not recollect to have read 
or heard anything by which I was more highly 
electrified. The fifth and sixth stanzas, and the 
eighteenth, thrilled with peculiar ecstasy 
through my soul. I mention this to you, that 
yon may sec what hit the taste of unlettered 
criticism. I should be glad to know, if the en- 
lightened mind and refined taste of Mr. Roscoe, 
who has borne such honourable testimony to 
this poem, agrees with me in the selection. Fer- 
gusson, in his "Hallow Fair " of Edinburgh, I 
believe, likewise furnished a hint of the title and 
plan of the " Holy Fair." The farcical scene the 
poet there describes was often a favourite field 
of his observation, and the most of the incidents 
he mentions had actually passed before his eves. 
It is scarcely necessary to mention, that the 
"Lament" was composed on that unfortunate 
passage in his matrimonial history, which 1 
have mentioned in my letter to Mrs. Dunlop, 
after the first distraction of his feelings had a 
little subsided. "The Tale of TwaDogs" was 
composed after the resolution of publishing was 
nearly taken. Robert had had a dog, which he 
called Lualh, that was a great favourite. The 
dog had been killed by the wanton cruelty of 
some person the night before my father's death. 
Robert said to me, that he should like to confer 
such immortality as lie could bestow upon bis 
old friend Luatti. and that he had a great mind 
to introduce something into the book under tlie 
title of "Stanzas to the memory of a quadruped 
friend-" but this plan was given up for the tale 
as it now stands. Ccesar was merely the crea- 
ture of the poet's imagination.— created for the 
purpose of holding chat with his favourite Luath. 
The first time Robert heard the spinet plaved 
upon was at the house of Dr. Lawrie, then "mi- 
nister of the parish of Loudon, now in Glasgow. 
having given up the parish in favour of his son. 
Dr. Lawrie has several daughters; one of them 
played; the father and mother led down the 
dance; the rest of the sisters, the brother, the 
poet, and the other guests, mixed in it. Jt was 
a delightful family scene for our poet, then lately 
introduced to the world. His mind was roused 
to a warm, poetic enthusiasm, and the stanzas, 
were left in the room where he slept. It was to 
Dr. Lawrie that Dr. Blacklock's letter was ad- 
dressed, which my brother, in his letter to Dr. 
Moore, mentions as the reason of his going to 
Edinburgh. 

When my father r>ued his little pronertv near I 
Alloway- Kirk, the wall of the church-yard had I 



gone to ruin, and cattle had free liberty of 
pasture in it. My father, with two or three 
other neighbours, joined in an application to the 
town council of Ayr, who were superiors of the 
adjoining land, for liberty to rebuild it, and 
raised by subscription a sum for enclosing this 
ancient cemetery with a wall; hence he came 
to consider it as his burial-] dace, and we learned 
that reverence for it people generally have for 
the burial-place of their ancestors. My brother 
was living in Ellisland, when Captain Grose, on 
his peregrinations through Scotland, stayed some 
time at Carse House, in the neighbourhood, with 
Captain Robert Riddel of Glenriddel, a particular 
friend of my brother's. The Antiquarian and 
the Poet were " Unco pack and thick thegither." 
Robert requested of Captain Grose, when he 
should come to Ayrshire, that he would make a 
drawing of Alloway-Kirk, as it was the burial- 
place of his father, and where he himself had a 
sort of claim to lay down his bones when they 
shonlil be no longer serviceable to him; and 
added, by way of encouragement, that it was 
the scene of many a good story of witches and 
apparitions, of which he knew the Captain was 
very fond. The Captain agreed to the request, 
provided the poet would furnish a witch-storv, 
to be printed along with it. " Tarn o' Shanter'" 
was produced on this occasion, and was first 
published in "Grose's Antiquities of Scotland."' 

The poem is founded on a traditional story; 
The leading circumstances of a man riding home 
very late from Ayr, in a stormy night— his seeing 
a light in Alloway-Kirk— his havingthe curiosity 
to look in— his seeing a dance of witches,with the 
devil playing on the bagpipe to them— the scanty 
covering of one of the witches, which made him 
so far forget himself as to cry, " Weel loupen, 
short sark!" with the melancholy catastrophe 
of the piece ;— it is all a true story, and can be well 
attested by many respectable old people in that 
neighbourhood. 

I do not at present recollect any circumstances 
respecting the other poems that could be at all 
interesting; even some of those I have men- 
tioned, 1 am afraid, may appear trifling enough, 
but you will only make use of what appears to 
you of consequence. 

The following poems in the first Edinburgh 
edition were not in that published in Kilmar- 
nock. "Death and Dr. Hornbook:" "The Prigs 
of Ayr;" "The Calf (the poet had been with 
Mr. Gavin Hamilton in the morning, who said 
jocularly to him, when he was going to church, 
in allusion to the injunction of some parents to 
their children, that he must be sure to bring a 
note of the sermon at mid-day; this address to 
the reverend gentleman <>u his text was accord- 
ingly produced);" "The Ordination.;" "The 
Address to the Unco Guid;" "Tarn Samson's 
Elegy;" "A Winter Night;'' "Stanzas on the 
same occasion as the preceding prayer ;"' 
"Verses left at a reverend friend's house;" 
"The First. Psalm ;" " Pra ver under the pressure 
of violent anguish ." "The first six Verses of the 
Ninetieth Psalm;" "Verses to Miss Logan, with 
Reattie's Poems;" "To a Haggis;" " Address to 
Edinburgh;" "John Barleycorn i" "When (iuiid- 
ford Guid;" "Behind yon hills where Stinchar 
flows;" "green grow the rashes;" "Again re- 
joicing Nature sees;" "The Gloomy Night;" 
" No Churchman am I." 

If you have never seen the first edition, it 
will, "perhaps, not be amiss to transcribe the 
preface, that you may see the manner in which 
the Poet made his first awe-struck approach ts 
the bar of public judgment. 



"The following Trifles are not the production 
of the poet, who, with the advantages of learned 
art, and, perhaps, amid the elegances and idle- 



200 



BURNS' rOETICAL WORKS. 



nesses of upper life, looks down for a rural 
theme, with an eye to Theocritus or Virgil. To 
the author of this, these and other celebrated 
names, their countrymen, are, at least in their 
original language, 'a fountain shut up. and a 
book sealed.' Unacquainted with the necessary 
requisites for commencing poet by rule, he sings 
the sentiments and manners he felt and saw in 
himself and his rustic compeers around him in 
his and their native language. Though a rhymer 
from his earliest years, at least from the earliest 
impulses of the softer passions, it was not till 
very latelv that the applause, perhaps the par- 
tiality of friendship, awakened his vanity so 
far as to make him think anything of his worth 
showing; and none of the following works were 
composed with a view to the press. To amuse 
himself with the little creations of his own 
fancy, amid the toil and fatigues of a laborious 
life.'.; to transcribe the various feelings, the loves. 
tue griefs, the hopes, the fears, in his own 
breast: to find some kind of counterpoise to the 
strnggles of a world, always an alien scene, a 
task uncouth to the poetical mind,— these were 
his motives for courting the muses, and in these 
he found poetry to be its own reward. 

" Now that he appears in the public character 
of an author, he docs it with fear and trembling. 
So dear is fame to the rhyming tribe, that even 
he, an obscure, nameless Bard, shrink 
at the thought of bciiitf branded a — an imperti- 
nent blockhead, obtruding his nonsense on the 
world; and. because he can make a shift to jingle 
a few doggerel Bcotch rhymes together, looking 
n-.-lf as a poet of no small consequence 
forsooth. 

" It is an observation of that celebrated poet, 
Shehstone, whose divine elegies do honour to our 



nation and our species, that 'humility has de- 
pressed many a genius to a hermit, but never 
raised one to fame !' If any critic catches at the 
word 'genius.' the author tells him once for all, 
that he certainly looks upon himself as possessed 
of some poetic abilities, otherwise his publishing 
in the manner he has done would be a ma- 
noeuvre beneath the lowest and worst cha- 
racter whi.h h . hopes his worst enemv willnever 
give him. But to the genius of a Ramsay, or the 
glorious dawnings of the poor unfortunate Fer- 
gusson, he. with equal unaffected sincerity, de- 
clares, that even in his highest pulse of vanitv. 
he has not the most distant pretensions. The 
two justly-admired Scotch poets he has often 
had in his eye in the following pieces, but rather 
with a view to kindle at their flame for servile 
imitation. 

••To his subscribers, the Author returns Ids 
most sincere thanks. Not the mercenary bow- 
over the counter, but the heart-throbbing grati- 
tude of the bard, conscious how much he owes to 
benevolence and friendship for gratifying him, 
:ves it. in that dearest wish of every 
poetic bosom— to be distinguished. If he begs 
Ins readers, particularly the learned and polite, 
who may honour him with a perusal, that they 
will make every allowance for education and 
circumstances of life; but if. after a fair, candid, 
ami impartial criticism, he shall stand Convicted 
ofdiilnese and nonsense, let him be done by as 
he would in that case do by others— let him be 
condemned, without mercy, to contempt and 
oblivion." 

I am. dear sir. 
Your most obedient humble servant. 

UlLBKBZ BDBN& 



KTOTIEIS- 



Note i. p. 1.— " Auld King Coil,', the ancient 
king of the Picts. 

Note 2, p.l.— '-After some dog in Highland sang.'' 
Cuchullin's dog in Ossian's Fiugal. 

Note 3, p. 3. — -Then Burnewin.' Burnewin— 
B u rn-the-ici ml— tlie Blacksmith, an appropriate 
title. 

Note 4, p. 3.—" The Author's earnest Cry and 
Prayer." This was written before the Act anent 
the Scotch Distilleries, of Session 1786: for which 
Scotland and the Author return their most 
grateful thanks. 

Notes, p. 3.—" Stand forth, an 7 tell yon Premier 
Youth.', Pitt. 

Note 6, p. 4.— "But could I like Montgomevies 
Fight." Montgomeries, afterwards 12th Earl of 
Eglinton. 

Note 7, p. 4.— "Thee, aith-detesting, chaste 
Kilkerran." Sir Adam Fergnsaon; 

Note 8, p. 4.— "The Laird o' Graham." The 
present Duke of Montrose (1800). 

Note 9, p. 4.—" An' drink his health in auld 
Nanse Timmock's." A worthy old hostess of the 
Author's, in Mauchline, where he sometimes 
studied politics over a glass of guid auld Scotch 
drink. 

Note 10, p. 5.— "The Holy Fair." Holy fair is 
a common expression in the west of Scotland 
for a sacramental occasion. 

Note 11, p. 6.—" An' aff, an' up the Cowgate." 
A street so called in Mauchline. 

Note 12, p. 7.— "When ither folk are busy 
sawinT' This rencounter happened in seed time. 
1785. 

Note 13, p. 7.— "This while ye hae been mony 
a grate." An epidemical fever was then raging 
in that country. 

Note 14, p. 7.— "Till ane Hornbook's taen up 
the trade." This gentleman. Dr. Hornbook, is, 
professionally, a brother of the Sovereign Order 
of the Ferula; but by intuition and inspiration. 
is at once an Apothecary, Surgeon, and Phy- 
sician. 

Note 15, p. 7.— "He's grown sae weel acquaint 
wi' Buchan." Bueban's Domestic Medicine. 

Note 1(3, p. 8.— '• Waes me from Johnny Ged's 
hole now." The grave-digger. 

Note 17, p. 8.— "And down by Simpson's 
wheel'dthe left about." A noted tavern at the 
Auld Brig end. 
e Note 18, p. 8.— 

•■The drowsy Dungeon-clock had number'd two, 
And Wallace Tower had sworn the fact was 

true." 
The two steeples. 

Note 10, p. 8.— "Swift as the Gos drives on the 
wheeling hare." The gos-hawk, or falcon. 

Note 20, p. 8.— "There's men o' taste would 
tak' the Ducat-stream." A noted ford j ust above 
the Auld Brig. 

Note 21, p. 9 — "Or haunted Garpal draws his 
feeble source." The bank of Garpal Water is one 
of the few places in the West of Scotland, where 
those fancy-searing beings, known by the name 
of Ghaists, still continue pertinaciously to in- 
habit. 

Notes 22 and 23, p. 9 — "And from Glenbuck 
down to the Batton key." Glenbuck, the source 



of the river Ayr. Eatton key, a small landing- 
place above the large key 

Note 24, p. 9.— "O had M'Louchlin, thaim- 
iii-piring sage." A well-known performer of 
Scottish music on the violin. 

Note 25, p. 9.— "A female form came from the 
tow'rs of Stair." Mrs. Stuart, of Stair. 

Note 26, p. 10.— "Then aff to the Begbie's in a 
raw." An inn near the Kirk. 

Note 27, p. 10.—" Cam in wi' Maggie Lauder." 
Alluding to a scoffing ballad which was made on 
the admission of the late reverend and worthy 
Mr. Lauder to the Laigh Kirk. 

Note 28, p. 10.— "But Oliphant aft made her 
yell." An evangelical minister in Kilmarnock. 

Note 29, p. 10.— "An' Russell sae misca'd her." 
'• Black Russell," afterwards of Stirling. 

Note 30, p. 10.—" This day, Macinlay taks his 
flail." The Rev. James Macinlay, in Kilmar- 
nock. 

Note 31, p. 10.—" How graceiess Ham ieugh at 
his dad." Genesis ix. 22. 

Note 32, p. 10.— "Or Phinehas drove the mur- 
dering blade." Numbers xxv. 8. 

Note 33, p. 10.— "Or Zipporah, the scaulding 
jade." Exodus iv. 25. 

Note 34, p. 10.— "As lately Fenwick, sair for- 
fairn." One Boyd was forced upon the parish 
of Fenwick in 1782. 

Note 35, p. 10.— " New Robertson harangue nae 
mair." Mackinlay's predecessor. 

Note 36, p. 10.—" Or to the Netherton repair." 
A part of Kilmarnock, full of weavers. 

Note 37, p. 10.— "Mutrie and you were just 
a match." The College of Mackinlay, a Mode- 
rate. 

Note 38, p. 10.— "To mak to Jamie Beattie." 
James Beattie, the author of "The Minstrel," &c. 

Note 39, p. 10.— "To every New Light mother's 
son." " New Light " is a cant phrase in the West 
of Scotland for those religious opinions which 
Dr. Taylor of Norwich has defended so strenu- 
ouslv. 

Note 40, p. 10.—" Sin that day Michael did you 
pierce." "Michael."— Vide Milton, book vi. 

Note 41. p. 12 " When Hughoc he came doytin 

by." A neighbour herd-callan. 

Note 42, p. 13.— "A title, Dempster merits it." 
Dempster of Dunnichen, Angus-shire. 

Note 43, p. 14.—" Your royal nest.beneath your 
wing." Burns here alludes to the recent loss of 
America. 

Note 44, p. 14.— "Abridge your bonnie barees." 
Alluding to the proposed reduction in the navy 

Note 45, p. 14.—" There, him at Agincourt wha 
shone." King Henry V. 

Note 46, p. 14.—" And yet wi' funny queer St. 
John." Sir John Falstaff, vide Shakspere. 

Note 47, p. 14.— "For yon. Right Rev'rend 
funahurg." The Duke of York, formerly Bishop 
of i j-naburg. 

Note 48, p. 14.— "Young roval Tarry Breeks, I 
learn." The Duke of Clarence, afterwards 
m IV. 

Note 49, p. 14.— "A glorious galley stem an' 
stern." AllHding to the newspaper account of 
an amour of the Dnke of Clarence. 



'M 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



Note 50. p. 15.— "Dnan first."' Duan, a terra 
of Ossian's for the different divisions of a digres- 
sive poem. See his Cul/t Loda, vol. ii. of M'PheX'- 
soii's translation. 

Note 51, p. 15.—" To see a race heroic wheel," 
The Wallaces. 

Note 52, p. 15.—" His Country's Saviour, mark 
him well I " William Wallace. 

Note 53. p. 15.—" Bold Richardton's heroic 
swell." Adam Wallace, of Richardton, cousin to 
the immortal preserver of Scottish indepen- 
dence. 

Note 54, p. 15.—" The chief of Sark who glorious 
fell." Wallace, Laird of Craigie, who was second 
in command, under Douglas Earl of Ormond, at 
the famous battle on the banks of Sark, fought 
anno 1448. That glorious victory was principally 
owing to the judicious conduct and intrepid 
valour of the gallant Laird of Craigie, who died 
of his wounds after the action. 

Note 55, p. 15.— "There, where a sceptred Pictish 
shade." Coilus. king of the Picts, from whom 
the district of Kyle is said to take its name, lies 
buried, as tradition says, near the family seat of 
the Montgomeries of Coilsfield, where his burial- 
place is still shown. 

Note 50, p. 15.— "Thro' many a wild, romantic 
grove." Barskimming, the se'at of the late Lord 
Justice Clerk. 

Note 57, p. 15.— "The learned sire and son I 
saw." Catrine, the scat of the late Doctor, and 
present Professor Stewart. 

Note 58, p. 15.—" Brydone's brave ward I well 
could spy." Colonel Fullarton. 

Note 59, p. 17. -"Tain Samson's Elegy." When 
this worthy old sportsman went out last rauir- 
fowl season, he supposed it was to he. in Ossian's 
phrase, "the last of his fields!" and expressed 
an ardent wish to die and he buried in tbeinuirs. 
On this hint the author composed his elegy and 
epitaph. 

Note 60, p. 17.—" Or great M'Kinlay thrown his 
beery a certain preacher, a great favourite 

with the million. 

Note Cl, p. 17.— "Or Robertson again grown 
week'' Another preacher, an cqnal favourite 

with the few, who was at that time ailing. For 
him. see also the Ordination. Stanza ix. 

Note 62, p. is.—" Thro' a' the streets and neuks 
o' Killie." Kiltie is a phrase the countryfolks 
sometimes use b.r Kilmarnock. 

Note 63, p. is. -■•Halloween " is thought to be 
n night when witches, devils, and other mischief - 
making beings, are nil abroad on their baneful 
midnight errands; particularly those aerial peo- 
ple, the Furies, are .said on that night to hold a 
grand anniversary. 

Note 64. p. 18.— '"■ On Cassillis Downans dance." 
Certain little, romantic, rocky, green hills, in 
the neighbourhood of the ancient seat of the Earl 
of Cassillis. 

Note 05. p. 18.— "There, up the cove, to stray 
an' rove." A noted cavern near C'olzean House, 
called the Cove of Colzean ; which, as Cassillis 
Downans. is famed in country story for being a 
favourite haunt for fairies. 

Note 60. p. 18.— "Where Bruce ance rnl'd the 
martial ranks." The famous family of that 
name, the ancestors of Rorert, the great de- 
liverer of his country, were Earls of Carrick. 

Note 07. p. 18.— "Their stocks manna' be sought 
ance.''— The first ceremony of Halloween, is 
pulling each a stock; or plant of kail. They must 
go out, hand-in-hand, with eyes shut, and pull 
the first thev meet with! It's being big or little, 
straight or crooked, is prophetic of the size and 
shape of the grand object of all their spells— the 
husband or wife. If any yird, or earth stick to 
the root, that is tochev, or fortune : and the taste 
of the custoc, that is the heart of the stem, is in- 
dicative of the natural temper and disposition.— 
Lastlv, the stems, or to give them their ordinary 
appellation, the runts, are placed somewhere 



above the head of the door, and the Christian 
names of the people whom chance brings into 
the house are, according to the priority of 
placing the runts, the names in question. 

Note 68, p. 18.— "To pu' their stalks o' corn." 
They go to the barn-yard, and pull each, at three 
several times, a stalk of oats. If the third stalk 
wants the top-pickle, that is. the grain at the top 
of the stalk, the party in question will come to 
the marriage-bed anything bur a maid. 

Note 69, p. 18 — "When kittlin' in the fause- 
house." When the corn is in a doubtful state, 
by being too green, or wet, the stack-builder, by 
means of old timber, «fcc, makes a large apart- 
ment in his stack, with an opening in the side 
which is the fairest exposed to the wind ; this he 
calls afause house. 

Note 70. p. 18.— "The auld guidwife's wecl- 
hoordet nits." Burning the nuts is a favourite 
charm. They name the lad and lass to each 
particular nut, as they lay them in the fire, and 
according as they burn quietly together, or 
start from beside one another, the course and 
issue of the courtship will be. 

Note 71, p. 19.— "And the blue clue throws 
then." Whoever would, with success, try this 
spell, must strictly observe these directions: 
Steal out, all alone, to the kiln, and darkling, 
throw into the pot a clue of blue yarn; wind it 
in a new clue off the old one . and. towards the 
latter end. something will bold the thread, de- 
mand wha hauds?— i.e., who holds? An answer 
will be returned from the kiln-pot, by naming 
the Christian and surname of your future 
spouse. 

Note 72, p. 19.—" I'll eat the apple at the glass." 
Take a candle, and go alone to a looking-glass; 
eat an apple before it, and some, traditions say, 
you should comb your hair all the time: the 
face of your conjugal companion, to be, will be 
seen in the glass, as if peeping over your 
shoulder. 

Note :.i. ]). 19.— •• He gal hemp-seed, I mind it 
week" Steal out unperceived. and sow a hand- 
fid of hemp-seed; harrowing it with anything 
you can conveniently draw after you. ftcpeat 
now and then. "Hemp-seed, I saw' thee; hemp- 
seed. I saw thee, and him (or her) that is to he 
my true love, come after me, and pu' thee. Look 
over your left shoulder, and you will sec the 
appearance of the person invoked, in the atti- 
tude of pulling hemp. Some traditions say, 
"come after me. and shaw thee"— that is, 
show thvself: in which case it simply appears. 
Others omit the harrowing, and say, "Come 
after me. and barrow thee." 

Note 71. p. 19. — "To win three wechts o' 
naething." This charm must likewise be per- 
formed unperceived and alone. You go to the 
barn and open both doors, taking them off the 
hinges, if possible: for there is danger that the 
boiiKj about to appear may shut the doors and do 
you some mischief. Then take that instrument, 
used in winnowing corn, which, in our country 
dialect, we call a icacht, and go through all the 
attitudes of letting down corn against the wind. 
Repeat it three times ; and the third time an 
apparition will pass through the barn, in at the 
windy door, and out at the other, having both 
the figure in question, and the appearance, or 
retinue, marking the employment or station in 
life, 

Note 75. p. 19.— "It chane'd the stack he fud- 
dom'd thrice." Take an opportunity of going, 
unnoticed, to a berestack, and fathom it three 
times round. The last fathom of the last time 
you will catch in your arms the appearance of 
your future conjugal yoke-fellow. 

Note 76, p. 20. — " Whare three lairds' lands 
met at a burn." You go out, one or more, for 
this is a social spell, to a south-running spring or 
rivulet, where "three lairds' lands meet," and 
dip your left shirt-sleeve. Go to bed in sight of 



a Are, and hang vonr wet sleeve before it to 
dry. Lie awake ; 'and some time near midnight, 
an" apparition, having the exact figure of the 
grand object in question, will come and turn 
the sleeve, as if to dry the other side of it. 

Note 77, p. 20. — "The luggies three are 
ranged.'' Take three dishes, put clean water in 
one," foul water in another, leave the third 
empty ; blindfold a person, and lead him to the 
hearth where the dishes arc ranged : he (or she) 
dips the left hand . if by chance in the clean 
water, the future husband or wife will come to 
the bar of matrimony a maid; if in the foul, a 
widow; if in the empty dish, it fortells, with 
equal certainty, no marriage at all. It is re- 
peated three times, and each time the arrange- 
ment of the dishes is altered. 

Note 78, p. 20.— '-Till butter' d so'ns, wi' fra- 
grant hint." Sowens, with butter instead of 
milk to them, is ahvavs the Halloween Supper. 

Note 79, p 22. — "A brother poet.'' David 
Sillar, one of the club at Tarbolton, and author 
of a volume of poems in the Scottish dialect. 

Note 80, p. 22.—" 'Mair speir na, nor fear na.' " 
" Fear na," -Ramsay. 

Note 81, p. 24.— "'-The sweeping blast, the sky 
o'ercast.'" Dr. Young. 

Note 82, p 25.— "'Hope springs exulting on 
triumphant wing.' " Pope's " "Windsor Forest.'' 

Note 83, p. 30.—" Because ye're surnamed like 
his grace." The Puke of Hamilton. 

Note 84, p. 31.-" But Miss's tine Lunardi." A 
bonnet, so called from Lunardi, the aeronaut. 

Note 85, p. 31 —"Fair Burnet." Daughter of 
Lord Munboddo. 

Note 86, p. 34.—" By this New-Light." New- 
Light is a cant phrase in the west of Scotland' 
for those religious opinions which Dr. Taylor, of 
Norwich, has defended so strenuously. 

Note 87, p. 34.— "Epistle to J. Rankine." A 
farmer near Lochlea, and a friend of Burns. 

Note 88, p. 34.—" Your dreams an' tricks." A 
certain humorous dream of his was then 
making a noise in the country-side. 

Note 89. p. 35.—" Yon sang"." A song he had 
promised the author. 

Note 90, p. 35.— "John Barleycorn." This is 
partly composed on the plan of an old song, 
known by the same name. 

Note 91, p. 37.— "Chorus." This chorus is part 
of a song composed by a gentleman in Edin- 
burgh, a particular friend of the author's. 

Note 92, p. 37.—" And maun I still on Menie 
doat." Heme is a common abbreviation of 
Manamne. 

Note 93, p. 39.— "Life's cares they are com- 
forts." Young's "Night Thoughts." 

Note 94, p. 41.— "Bloody dissectors, worse 
than ten Monroes." Alexander Monroe, Pro- 
fessor of Anatomy, Edinburgh. 

Note. 95, p. 43.—" And win the key-stane of the 
Drig." It is a well-known fact that witches, or 
any evil spirits, have no power to follow a poor 
wight any farther than the middle of the next 
running stream. It may be proper, likewise, to 
mention to the benighted traveller, that when 
he falls in with bogles, whatever danger may 
be in his going forward, there is much more 
hazard in turning back. 

Note 9.5, p. 45. -"To Miss Cruikshanks." 
Daughter of William Cruikshank, a teacher in 
Edinburgh High School. 

Note 97, p. 45. — " Humble Petition of Bruar 
Water." Bruar Falls, in Athole, are exeeedinglv 
picturesque and beautiful, but their effect i's 
much impaired by the want of trees and 
shrubs. 

Note 98. p. 47.— "Old Loda still rueing the arm 
of Fingal.' See Ossjan's Caricthura. 

Note 99, p. 47— •• I'll conjure the ghost of the 
great Boric More." See Johnson's Tour to the 
Hebrides. 

Note loo, p. 47. - " A brother poet." This is 



prefixed to the poems of David Sillar, published 
at Kilmarnock, 1789. 

Note 101, p. 48.—' Once the lov'd haunts of 
Scotia's royal train." The King's Park at Holy- 
rood House. 

Note 102, p. 48. — "Or muse where limpid 
streams once hallow'd well." St. Anthonys 
Well. 

Note 103, p. 48.— "Or mouldering ruins mark 
the sacred fane. St. Anthony's Chapel. 

Note 104. p. 49. — "An old sweetheart, then 
married. The girl mentioned in the letter to 
Dr. Moore. 

Note 105. p. 49. -"The Kirk's Alarm." This 
poem was written a short time after the publica- 
tion of Mr. M'Gi'd's Essay. 

Note 106, p. 49.—" Dr. Mac." Dr. Mc Gill. 

Note 107, p. 49.— "And orator Bob." Bobert 
Aiken. 

Note 108, p. 49.— "D'rymplc mild." Dr. Dal- 
rymple. 



lble John." Mr. Russell. 
Simper James." Mr. 



; Singet Sawney." Mr. 



Mr. Yo 



Poet 


Willie." 


Mr. 


Peebles, 


Audi 


o Gouk." 


Dr. 


A. Mit- 


Barr 


Steenie." 


Mr. 


Stephen 


" Trv 


ine side." 


Mi 


. Smith, 


' Mui 


•land Joel, 


." Mr Shep- 



Note 109, p. 49. 

Note 110, p. 
Mc Inlay. 

Note 111, p. 
Moody. 

Note 112, p. 49.— "Daddy Auhl." Mr Auld. 

Note 113. p. 49.—" Davie Blustor." Mr. 
Grant, Ochiltree. 

Note 114, p. 49.— "Jamie G 
Cumnock. 

Note 115, p. 49.—' 
Ayr. 

Note 116, p. 49.—' 
ehell. 

Note 117, p. 49.-" 
Young. Barr. 

Note 118, p. 49.- 
Galston. 

Note 119, p. 49.— 
herd. 

Note 120, p. 49.—" Holy Will." Wm. Fisher, an 
Elder in Mauchline. 

Note 121, p. 51. — " I meiklo dread him." 
' Dread him." Meaning McMath. 

Note 122. p. 51.—" But a world without a 
friend!" Strathallan, it is presumed, was one of 
the followers of the young Chevalier, and is sup- 
posed to be lying concealed in. some cave of the 
Highlands, after the battle of Culloden. This 
song was written before the year 1788. 

Note 123, p. 51.— "And bonny Castle Gordon." 
The young Highland rover is supposed to be the 
young Chevalier. Prince Charles Edward. 

Note 124, p. 52.—" That watched thy early 
morning." This song was written during the 
winter of 1787. Miss J. Cruikshanks. daughter 
of a friend of the Bard, is the heroine. 

Note 125, p. 53.— "The flowers decayed on Ca- 
trine lee." Catrine, in Avrshire, the seat of 
Dugald Stewart, Esq.. Professor of Moral Philo- 
sophy in the University of Edinburgh. Balloch- 
myle, formerly the seat of Sir John Whiteford, 
now of Alexander, Esq. (1S0O.) 

Note 126, p. 53.— "Thro 5 faded groves Maria 
sang." The eldest daughter of Sir John White- 
ford. 

Note. 127, p. 53.—" We are nae fou," &c. Willie, 
who "brew'd a peck o' maut," was Mr. William 
Nichol ; and Bob and Allan, were our poet, and 
his friend, Allan Masterton. These three honest 
fellows— all men of uncommon talents. 

Note 128, p. 53.— "To her twa e'en sae bonny 
blue." The heroine of this song was Miss Jeffrey, 
of Lochmaben. This lady, now Mrs. Renwick. 
after residing some time in Liverpool, is settled 
with her husband in New York, North America, 

Note 129, p. 54. — "Or wavering like the Bauc- 
kie bird." The old Stotch name for the Bat. 

Note 130, p. 54.—" When the bloods- die was 
cast on the heights of Abram." Where General 
Wolfe fell, 1759. 

Note 131, p. 54— "And the Morowlow was laid 



204 



fit the. sound of tho drum 
Havannuh, 17G2. 

Note 132. p. 51.-" I lastly was with Curtis." 
Captain Curtis, who destroyed the Spanish 
floating batteries during the siege of Gibraltar, 
1782. 

Koto 133, p. 56.— "An' by that dear Kilbaigie." 
A peculiar sort of whisky so called, a great 
favourite with Poosic-Nansie's clubs. 

Note 134, ]>. 56.— "Her lord, a wight o' Homer's 
craft." Homer is allowed to be the oldest bal- 
Jad singer on record. 

Note 115, p. CO.— '• I love my gallant weaver." 
In some'editions sailor is substituted for weave)'. 

Note 130. p. Gl.— "She has the truest kindest 
heart." The heroine of this song, Mrs. Oswald, 
(formerly Miss Lucy Johnston,) died in Lisbon. 
This most accomplished and most lovely woman 
-was worthy of this beautiful strain of sensibility, 
which will convey some impression of her at- 
tractions to other generations. 

Note 137, p. Gl.— '1 winaa ventur't in my 
rhymes." This poem, an imperfect copy of 
which was printed in Johnson's Museum, is here 
given from the poet's MS. with his last correc- 
tions. The scenery so finely described is taken 
from nature. The poet is supposed to be musing 
by night <ui the banks of the river Cluden, and 
by the ruins of Lincluden-Abbcy, founded in the 
twelfth century, in the reign of Malcolm IV. of 
whose present situation the reader may find 
some account in I'ennaiifs Tour in Scotland, of 
Close's Antiquities of that division of the island. 
Such a time and such a place are well fitted for 
holding converse wiih aerial beings. Though 
this poem has a political bias, yet it may be pre- 
sumed that no reader of taste, whatever his 
opinions may be, would forgivelt being omitted. 
Our poet's prudence suppressed the song of 
"Liberty,"' perhaps fortunate!,- tor bis reputa- 
tion. It may be questioned whether, even in 
the resources of his genius, a strain of poetry 
could have been found worthy of the grandeur 
and solemnity of llii ; preparation. 

Note. 138, p. 02.—" A llight of boid eagles from 
Adria's strand.' The Romans. 

Note 139, p. 02.— "The scourge of the : eas, and 
the dread of the shore." The Saxons. 

Note 140, ]). 68.— "To wanton in carnage, and 
wallow in gore." The Danes. 

Note HI, page 02.— "As Largs v. ell can witness 
and Loncartie tell." Two famous battles, in 
which the Danes or Norwegians were de- 
feated. 

Note 142, p. 52.— "And robb'd him at once of 
his hopes and his life." The Highlanders of the 
Isles or Picts. 

Note 148. p. 02.— "Then erg-, she'll match them 
and match them always." This singular figure 
of poetry, taken from the mathematics, refers to 
the famous proposition of Pythagoras, the 47th 
of the first book of Euclid."' In aright-angled 
triangle, the square of the hypothenuse is always 
equal to the squares of the two other sides. 

Note 144, p. 03.— " And whigs to hell, did flee. 
man. This was written about the time our bard 
made his tour to the Highlands. 1787. 

Note 145. p. G3.— •• Coila"s fair Rachel's care to- 
day." This young lady was drawing a picture of 
Coila from the Vision. 

Note 146. p: 03,— " Extempore, on the late Mr. 
William Smellie." Mr. Smellie, and our poet, 
were both members of a club in Edinburgh, un- 
der the name of Crochallan Fencibles. 

Note 147, p. 04.— --That strain pours round th' 
untimely torn!) where Riddel lies !" Robert Rid- 
del, Esq.. of Friar's Carse, a very worthy charac- 
ter, and one to whom our bard thought himself 
under manv obligations. 

Note 14S,"p. 04.—" My hand-afore's." The fore- 
horse on the left-hand", in the plough. 

Note 149. p. 64— "My hand-ahinV." The 
hindmost on the left hand, in the plough. 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 
The Capture of 



Note 150, p. 04.— " Wha aft has borne me safe 
frae Killie." Kilmarnock. 

Note 151, p. 64.— "My fnr-a-hin's." The hind- 
most on the right-hand, in the plough. 

Note 152, p. 64.—" Nae gentle dames, tho' e'er 
sae fair." Gentle is used here in opposition to 
simple, in the Scottish and old English sense 
of the word. Nae gentle dames — no high- 
blooded. 

Note 153, p. 65.— "To sing my Highland Lassie, 
O!" This is an early production, and seems to 
have been written oil Highland Mary. 

Note 154, p. 05.— "To Mr. Tyme." Jerusalem 
Tavern, Dumfries. 

Note 155, p. 05.— "The Nith shall run to Cor- 
sincon." A high hill at the source, of the Nith. 

Note 150, p. 05.— "And Criffelsink in Solway." 
A well-known mountain at the mouth of the 
same river. 

Note 157, p. 68.— "Meg was deaf as Ailsa 
Craig."' A well-known rock in the frith of 
Clyde. 

Note 158. p. 70.—" How blest the humble cot- 
tar's fate." "The wildwood Indian's fate," in 
the original MS. 

Note 159, p. 70.— "My ain dear dainty Davie. ' 
Dainty Davie is the title of an old Scotch son;:, 
from which Burns has taken nothing but the 
title and the measure. 

Note 16«, p. 71.—" Sounding Cluden's woods 
amang." The river Cluden, a tributary stream 
to the Nith. 

Note 161. p. 72.—" Yonder Cluden's silent 
towers." Linclnden Abbey. 

Note 102, p. 74. — "Around my grave they'll 
wither." Ci aigio-burn wood is situated on the 
banks of the river Moffat, and about three miles 
distant from the village of that name, celebrated 
for its medicinal waters. The woods of Craigie- 
bnrn and of Dumcrief were at one time favou- 
rite haunts of our poet. It wasthere he met the. 
" Lassie wi' the lint-white locks," Mrs. Whelp- 
dale, and that he conceived several of his beau- 
tiful lyrics. 

Note 02, p. 77.— "Fairest maid " &c. These, 
verses, and the letter enclosing thexi, are 
written in a character that marks the very feeble 
state of their author. Mr. Syme is of opinion 
that he could not have been in any clanger of a 
gaol at Dumfries, where certainly be had many 
firm friends, nor under any necessity of implor- 
ing aid from Edinburgh. But about this time 
his mind began to be at times unsettled, and the 
horrors of a gaol perpetually haunted bis imagi- 
nation, lie died on the 22nd of .July, 1700. 

Note 104. p. 04. -"There was Maggy by the 
bands of Nith." Dumfries. 

Note 165. p. C5.—" And Margery of the Mony 
Lochs." Lochmaben. 

Note ICG, p. 00.— "And blinkiu' Bess </ Au- 
nandale." Annan. 

Note 107. p. 07.—" In Calloway, sac wide. 
Kirkcudbright. 

Note 108, p. 68. — "And Black Joan, frae 
Crichton Peel."' Sanquhar. 

Note 100. p. 00— 'The first he was a belted 
knight." Sir J. Johnstone. 

Note 170. p. 7o. — "Then next came in n 
sodger vouth." Major Miller. 

Note" 171, p. 72.— "For the old guid man o 
Lon'on court." George III. 

Note 172. p. 72.— "To greet his eldest son." 1 
The Prince of Wales. 

Note 173, p. 73.— John Bushby, Esq. of lin- 
wald-down. 

Note 174, p. 74.— "Ruisseaux," a play tipon 
his own name. 

Note 175. p. 75.— "On the publication of his 
essays." These essavs were published in ex- 
position of the doctrines of Dr Me Gill, so 
violently persecuted by the heroes of ortho- 
doxy. 

Note 176, p. 81.— "Tis you and Taylor arc 



the chief." Dr. Taylor, of .Norwich, whose doc- 
trines were advocated bv Goudie and Mc Gill. 

Note 177, p. 81.— -'Holy Willies Prayer." 
The hero of this daring exposition of Calvinistic 
theology was William Fisher, a farmer in the 
neighbourhood of Mauchline, and an elder in 
Mr. Atild's session. He had signalized himself 
in the prosecution of Mr. Hamilton, elsewhere 
aUnded to : and Burns appears to have written 
these verses in retribution of the rancour he had 
displayed on that occasion. Fisher was, pro- 
bably, a poor, narrow-witted creature, with 
just sufficient sense to make a show of sanctity. 
When removed to another parish, and there 
acting as an elder, he was found guilty of 
some peculations in the funds of the poor— 
to which Burns alludes in the " Kirk's Alarm." 



from the vehicle, and was found lifeless in a 
ditch next morning. 

Note 178, p. 82.— " Third Epistle to John La- 
praik." This epistle was first published by La- 
praik himself amongst his own works. 

Note 179, p. 82.— "Epistle to the Rev. John 
M-Math," at that time enjoying the appointment 
of assistant and successor* to the Rev. Peter 
Woodrow, minister of Tarbolton. He was an 
excellent preacher, and a decided moderate. 
He enjoyed the friendship of the Montgomeries 
of Coils'field, and of Burns ; but unhappily fell 
into low spirits, in consequence of his dependent 
situation, and became dissipated. After being 
for some time tutor to a family in the Western 
Isles, it is said that this unfortunate man itlti- 
matelv enlisted as a common soldier. 

Note 180, p. 82.— "There's Gawn." Gawn, 
Gawin, Gavin. Alluding to Gavin Hamilton. 

Note 181, p. 83.— "Life scrapin' out auld Crum- 
mie's nicks." Tootie lived in Mauchline, and 
dealt in cows. The age of these animals is 
marked by rings on their horns, which may of 
course be cut and polished off, so as to cause the 
cow to appear younger than it is. This villany 
is called sueck-d'r awing, and he who perpetrates 
it is a sneck-drawer. 

Note 182, p. 83.— "And name the airles." The 
nirles— earnest money. (See also Glossary). 

;S*oto 183, p. 84.—" Willie Chalmers." A writer 
in Ayr, and particular friend of the poet. Mr. 
Chalmers asked Burns to write a poetic epistle 
in his behalf to a young lady whom he admired. 
Burns, who had seen the lady, but was scarcely 
acquainted with her, complied by penning the 
above. 

Note 184, p. 84.— "Lines written on a Bank 
Note." "These verses in the handwriting of 
Burns, are copied from a bank-note, in the pos- 
session of Mr. James F. Grade, of Dumfries. 
The note is of the Bank of Scotland, and is dated 
so far back as 1st 31arch, 1780. The lineg-exliibit 
the strong marks of the poet's vigorous pen, and 
are evidently an extempore effusion of his cha- 
racteristic feelings. They bear internal proof of 
their having been -written at that interesting 
period of his life, when he was on the point of 
leaving the country on account of the unfavour- 
able manner in which his proposals for marrying 
his " bonny Jean " (his future wife) were at first 
received by her parents."— Motherwell. 

Note 185, p. 84.—" Verses written under violent 
Grief." These verses appear to have been 
written in the distressing summer of 1785, when 
the poet's prospects were at the dreariest, and 
the very wife of his fondest affections had for- 
saken him. From the time, and other circum- 
stances, we may conjecture that the present 
alluded to was a copy of the Kilmarnock edition 
of poems, then newly published. The ver 
appeared in the Sim newspaper, April, 1823. 

Note 186, p. 84 — "Tho' by his banes who in a 
tub." Diogenes. 

Note 187, p. 84.—" Linos on meeting with Basil, 



ES. 205 

Lord Daer." This meeting took place. October 
23rd, 17S6, at Catrine, the seat of Professor 
Stewart, to which Burns was now taken for the 
first time by 31r. Mackenzie, surgeon, Mauch- 
line. Lord Daer. who was eldest son to Dunbar, 
fourth Earl of Selkirk, and had been a pupil of 
Mr. Stewart, was a young nobleman of the 
greatest promise. He had just returned from 
France, where he cultivated the society of some 
of those men who afterwards figured in the 
Revolution, and had contracted their sentiments. 
He was cut off in .November. 1794, leaving the 
succession open to his younger brother, the late 
Thomas, Earl of Selkirk, distinguished by his 
exertions in the cause of emigration. 

Note 188, p. 84.— "Epistle to Major Logan." 
Major Logan, a retired military officer, still re- 
membered in Ayrshire for his wit and humour 
—of which two specimens may be given. xVskcd 
by an Ayr hostess if he would have water to the 
glass of spirits she was bringing to him on his 
order, he said, with a grin, "No, I would rather 
you took the water out o't." Visited on his 
death-bed by Mr. Cuthill, one of the ministers of 
Ayr, who remarked that it would take fortitude 
to support such sufferings as he was visited 
with; "Ay," said the poor wit. "it would take 
fiftitttdk." At the time when the above letter 
was addressed to him, Major Logan lived at 
Parkhonse, in Ayrshire, with his mother and 
sister, the Miss Logan to whom Burns presented 
a copy of Beattie's Poems, with verses. The 
major was a capital violinist. 

Note 189. p. 86.— "Prologue, spoken by Mr. 
Woods on his benefit night. Monday, JOth April, 
1787.'i Mr. Woods had been the friend of Fer- 
gusson. He was long a favourite actor in Edin- 
burgh, and was himself a man of some poetical 
talent. He died, at his house on the Terrace, 
Edinburgh, December 14, 1802. 

Note 190. p. 86.— "And Harley." The hero of 
Mackenzie's "Man of Feeling," of which Burns 
always spoke in such warm terms of admira- 
tion.* 

Note 191, p. 86.— "Epistle to William Creech." 
Written at Selkirk, May, 1787, in the course of 
the poet's southern tour. Mr. Creech was the 
poet's Edinburgh publisher, and seems at this 
time to have been in high favour with him. 

Note 192, p. 80.— "Auld chuckie Reekie." Edin- 
burgh. 

Note 193, p. 86.— "The brethren o' the Com- 
merce Chaumer." The Chamber of Commerce of 
Edinbnrgh. of which Mr. Creech was secretary. 

Note 194, p. 87.- "Elegy on the Lord President 
Dundas." Robert Dundas. of Arniston. elder 
brother of Viscount Melville; born 1713, ap- 
pointed president in 1760, and died December 
14, 1787, after a short illness. Burns sent a copy 
of the poem to Dundas's son, afterwards Lord 
Advocate and Lord Chief Baron, but received 
no answer to it. which he greatly resented. 

Note 195, p. 87.—" A little upright, pert, tart, 
tripping wiaht." W Creech. 

Note 196, p. 87.— "Epistle to Hugh Parker." 
An early friend of Burns at Kilmarnock. These 
lines were written in the year 1788. at the period 
when Burns was commencing his household and 
farming career at Ellisland. 

Note 197, p. 88.—" Epistle to Captain Riddel, of 
Glenriddel, on returning a newspaper." Captain 
Riddel had, in the course of poring over a news- 
paper, fallen upon some critical remarks re- 
specting some production of Burns, and had ac- 
cordingly despatched the paper to the poet, that 
he might have an opportunity of observing what 
was said of him. And it was in returning this 
paper that Burns accompanied it with the 
comical note in verse, entitled an " Extempore 
to Captain Riddel." 

Note, 198, p. 88 — " Letter to Tennant, of Glen- 
conner." Mr. James Tennant had been an 
early and constant friend of Robert Burns and 



200 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



his family, and had taken an active part in the 
selection of the farm of EUisland for the poet. 

Note 199, |) 89.— "Peg Nicholson.'" A mare, 
the property of Mr. William Nicol, and sent by 
that gentleman to Burns, in whose keeping it 
became ill, and died at his farm of EUisland. 

Note 20(i. p. 89.—'- But 6/ws still bordering upon 
icoe." The parallel between these lines and 
those of Johnson, as follow, cannot escape the 
reader:— 

"In bed we laugh, in bed we cry, 
And born in bed, in bed we die ; 
The near approach a bed may show, 
Of human bliss and human woe." 

Note 201, p. 89.—" Second Epistle to Mr. Gra- 
ham, of Fintry." This is a description of the con- 
test between' Sir J. Johnstone and Captain 
Miller for the Dumfries Burghs. " Drumlanrig," 
is the infamous fourth Duke of Queensberry. 
"Westcrha" is Sir James Johnstone, the Tory 
candidate. M'Mnrdo, was the Duke of Queens- 
berry's chamberlain at Drumlanrig— a friend of 
the 'poet. •• Craigdarroch," is Fergusson, of 
Craigdarroch ; " Glenriddel," is Captain Riddel. 
of Glenriddel. another friend of the poet; 
"Staig," was the Provost of Dumfries ; " Welsh, "' 
the sheriff of the county. 

Note 202, p. 89.— "O for n throat like huge 
Mons-meg." A piece of ordnance, of extraordi- 
nary structure and magnitude, founded in the 
reign of James IV of Scotland, about the end of 
the fifteenth century, and which is still exhi- 
bited, though in an infirm state, in Edinburgh 
Castle. The diameter of the mouth is twenty 
inches. 

Note 203, p. 89. — "Against the Buchan 
Bullers." The " Bailers of Bnchan" is an ap- 
pellation given to a tremendous rocky recess on 
the Aberdeenshire coast, near Peterhead— 
having an opening to the Ben while the top is 
open. The sea, constantly raging in it, gives it 
the appearance of a pot, or boiler, and hence the 
name. 

Note 204, p. 89.— "The mil filed murthcrer of 
Charles." The executioner of Charles I of Eng- 
land, who was. as the custom, was masked. 

Note 205. p. 90.— "Bold Scrimgeour." John, 
Earl of Dundee. 

Note 200. p. 90.— "Gallant Grahame." The il- 
lustrious Graham, Earl, and afterwards Mar- 
quis, of Montrose. 

Note 207. p. 9o.—" Address of Beelzebub to the 
President of the Highland Society." 'ilns poem 
came through the hands of Rankino of AdamhiU 
to those of a gentleman of Ayr, who gave it to 
the world in the ••Edinburgh Magazine" for 
February, 1818, with the following original super- 
scription :—' To the Right Honourable the Earl 
of Breadalbane. President of the Right Honour- 
able and Honourable the Highland Society, 
■which met on the 23rd oi .May last, at the Shak- 
spere, Covent Garden, to concert ways and 
means to frustrate the designs uf five hundred 
Highlanders, who, as the society were informed 
by Mr. M-Kenzic, of Applecross, were so au- 
dacious as to attempt an escape from their 
lawful lords and masters, whose property they 
were, by emigrating from the lands of Mr. 
M'Donald, of Glengarry, to the wilds of Canada, 
in search of that fantastic thing— Liberty " 

Note 208, p. 91.— "On General Dumourier.— A 
Parody on Robin Adair." When General Du- 
mourier, after unparalleled victories, left the 
army of the French Republic, in 1793. and took 
refuge from the infuriated Convention with the 
enemies he had lately beaten, some one express- 
ing joy in the event where Burns was present, 
he chanted almost extempore the sarcastic 
stanzas of the text. 

Note 209. p. 91. — " Epistle from ^Esopus to 
Maria." By ^sopns, is meant an actor of the 
name of Williamson. 



Note 210, p. 91 "I see her face the first of 

Ireland's sons." Gillespie. 

Note 211, p. 91.— "The crafty colonel." Colonel 
Mc'Dowal, of Logan. 

Note 212, ]>. 92.—" On the death of a favourite 
child." Alluding to an only daughter, who died 
in the autumn of 1795, and so far removed from 
his residence, as to render it impossible for him 
to visit her at the last. She died, moreover, 
very suddenly. 

Note 213, p.' 93.— "The Dean of the Faculty.— A 
new ballad." The Honourable Henry Erskine 
was elected Dean of the Faculty of Advocates in 
1786, and unanimously re-elected every year 
till 1796, when it was resolved by some members 
of the Tory party at the Scottish bar to oppose 
his re-election, "in consideration of Ins having 
aided in getting up a petitionagainst the passing 
of the well-known sedition bills. Mr. Erskine's 
appearance at the Circus (now the Adelphi 
Theatre) on that occasion was designated by 
those gentlemen (among whom were Charles 
Hope and David Boyle, respectively Lord 
President and Lord-Justice Clarke) as "agi- 
tating the giddy and ignorant multitude, and 
cherishing such humours and dispositions as 
directly tend to overturn the laws." They 
brought forward Mr. Robert Dundas, of Amis- 
ton, Lord Advocate, in opposition to Mr. Ers- 
kine; and at the election, January 12th. 179ii, 
the former gained the day by 123 against 38 
votes. The following verses by Burns describe 
the keenness of the contest. The mortification 
of the displaced dean was so extreme, that he 
that evening, with a coal-axe, hewed off from 
his door, in Prince's Street, a brass-plate on 
which his designation as Dean of Faculty was 
inscribed. It is not impossible, that, in character- 
izing Mr. Dundas so opprobriously, and we may 
add. unjustly, Burns might recollect the slight 
with which his elegiac verses on the father of 
that gentleman had been treated eight years 
before. 

Note 214, p. 93. — "Verses on the destruction of 
the woods near Drumlanrig." The Duke of 
Queensbcrrv stripped his domains of Drumlan- 
rig, in Dumfries-shire, and Neidpath in Peebles- 
shire, of all the wood fit for being cut, in order 
to enrich the Countess of Yarmouth, whom he 
supposed to be his daughter. 

Note 215, p. 93— "On the Duke of Queensberry." 

Burns was one day being rallied by a friend for 
wasting Ins satirical shafts on a person un- 
worthy of his notice, and was reminded that 
there were such persons idi-tin'-'iiisherl by rank 
and circumstance) as the Duke of Queensberry, 
on whom his biting rhapsodies might more ad- 
vantageously be expended. He immediately 
improvised these lines. 

Note 216, )». 93.— "Verses to John M'Murdo, 
with a present of books." Mr. M'Murdo resided 
at Drumlanrig. as chamberlain to the Duke of 
Queen -berry He and his wife and daughters 
are alluded to in the election piece, entitled 
"Second Epistle to Mr. Graham. of Fintry." They 
were kind and hospitable friends of Burns, who 
celebrated several of the young ladies in his 
songs. 

Note 217, p. 23 — " Impromptu on Willie Stew- 
art." -Sir Walter Scott possessed a tumbler, 
on which these lines were written by Burns, on 
the arrival of a friend. Mr. W. Stewart, factor to 
a gentleman of Nithsdale. The landlady being 
very wroth at what she considered the dis- 
figurement of her glass, a gentleman present 
appeased her by paying down a shilling, and 
carried off the relic."— Lockhaht. 

Note 218, p. 94 — " Montgomery's Peggy." The 
old ballad, " McMillan's Peggy," was the model 
of this song. The heroine of the piece was a 
young lady, educated in a manner somewhat 
superior to the peasantry in general, and on 
whom Burns practised to display his tact in 






captivating, until, by degrees, he fell in love in 
earnest, and then discovered that the object of 
this tirst sport, then earnest, was previously 
engagcd. " it cost me," says he, " some heart- 
aches to get rid of the affair'.'' 

Note 219, p. 94.— "Bonny Peggy Allison." Ac- 
cording to Mr. Cunningham, this was the same 
person as "Montgomery's Peggy." But more 
accurate information identities the heroine of 
the piece as Margaret Allison, of Lochlee, who 
was not engaged, and who actually mourned the 
inconstancy of Burns. 

Note 220, p. 94.—" Young Peggy.' - This was the 
same Peggy Allison mentioned in the foregoing 
note. 

Note 221, p. 94.—" Yon wild mossy mountains.'' 
"This tune is by Oswald ; and the words relate 
to some part of my private history, which it is of 
no consequence to the world to know.''— Burns. 

Note 222, p. 95.— "Macplicrson's Farewell.'' 
James Macpherson was a noted Highland free- 
booter, of uncommon personal strength, and an 
excellent performer on the violin. After holding 
the counties of Aberdeen, Banff, and Moray in 
fear for some years, he was seized by Duff, of 
Braco, ancestor of the Earl of Fife, and tried 
before the sheriff of Banffshire (November 7, 
1700). along with certain gipsies who had been 
taken in his company. In the prison, while he 
lay under sentence of death, he composed a 
song, and an appropriate air, the former com- 
mencing thus :— 

" I've spent my time in rioting, 
Debauched my health and strength; 
1 squandered fast as pillage came, 
And fell to shame at length. 
But dantorily, and wantonly, 

And rantohly I'll gae : 
I'll play a tune, and dance it roun", i 

Beneath the gallows tree." 

When brought to the place of execution, on the 
Gallows-hill of Banff (Nov. 10), he played the 
tune on his violin, and then asked if any friend 
was present who would accept the instrument 
as- a gift at his hands. No one coming for- 
ward, he indignantly broke the violin on his 
knee, and threw away the fragments ; after 
which, he submitted to his fate. The tradi- 
tionary accounts of Macpherson's immense 
prowess are justified by his sword, which is 
still preserved in Duff House, at Banff, and is 
an implement of great length and weight— as 
well as by his bones, which were found a few 
years ago, and were allowed by all who saw 
them to be much stronger than the bones of or- 
dinary men The verses of Burns— j ustly called 
by Mr. Lockhart, '-a grand lyric,"— were desig- 
nated as an improvement on those of the free- 
booter, preserving the same air. 

Note 223, p. 96.— "Here's a health to Charlie." 
Mr. Fox. 

Note 224, p. 96.— "When Januar' Wind." In 
imitation of a song of which that consummate 
libertine, Charles II, was the hero. 

Note 225, p. 96.—" Bonnie Ann." " I composed 
this song out of compliment to Miss Ann Master- 
ton, the daughter of my friend Allan Masterton, 
the author of the air ' Strathallan's Lament,' 
and two or three others in this work (Johnson's 
Scott's Musical Museum).'' — Burns. Miss Mas- 
terton afterwards became Mrs. Derbishire. 

Note 226, p. 97.— "To Mary in Heaven." This 
celebrated poem was composed by Burns, in 
September, 1789, on the anniversary of the day 
on which he heard of the death of his early love, 
Marv, Campbell. According to Mrs Burns, he 
spent that day, although labouring under cold, 
in the usual work of the harvest, aiid apparently 
in excellent spirits. But, as the twilight deep- 
ened, he appeared to grow "very sad about 
something;" and at length wandered out into 
the barn-yard, to which his wife, in her anxiety, 



ES. 207 

followed him, entreating him in vain to observe 
that frost had set in, and to return to the fire- 
side. On being again and again requested to do 
so, he promised compliance— but still remained 
where he was, striding up and down slowly, and 
contemplating the sky, which was singularly 
clear and starry. At last Mrs. Burns found him 
stretched on a mass of straw, with his eyes 
fixed on a beautiful planet, "that shone like 
another moon," and prevailed on him to come 
in. He immediately, on entering the house, 
called for his desk, and wrote exactly as they 
now stand, with all the ease of one copying from 
memory, these sublime, and pathetic verses. 

Note 227, p. 98.— "Kenmure's on and awa'." 
This song is supposed to be one of those which 
Burns only improved from old versions. William 
Gordon, sixth Viscount Kenmure, raised a body 
of troops for the Pretender in 1715. and had the 
chief command of the insurgent forces in the 
south of Scotland. Taken at Preston, he was 
tried, and condemned to be beheaded, which 
sentence was executed on the 25th February, 
1726. His forfeited estate was bought back by 
his widow, and transmitted to their son. By 
the son of that son— now Viscount Kenmure, in 
consequence of the restoration of the title — 
Burns was, on one occasion, entertained at his 
romantic seat of Kenmure Castle, near New 
Galloway. 

Note 228, p. 98.— "The Exciseman. ' This song- 
was handed up to the chairman, extemporised, 
on the back of a letter, by Burns, at a meeting 
of Excise officers, at Dumfries, when the poet 
was called upon for a song. 

Note 229, p. 99.— "It was a' for our rightfu' 
king." This song, whether absolutely original, 
or remodelled from some ancient ballad, was 
contributed by Burns to Johnson's Musical 
Museum. Mr* Cunningham pronounces it not 
original. I cannot, however, trace any ballad, 
either among the early English, or early Scottish 
Poesy, which will sustain Mr. Cunningham's 
judgment: and, moreover, there are sufficient 
grounds for identifying its absolute originality, 
the rhythm only being adopted. 

Note 230, p. 99.— The Fete Champetre." The 
occasion of this ballad was as follows :— " When 
Mr. Cunninghame, of Enterkin, came to his es- 
tate, two mansion-houses on it, Enterkin and 
Annbank, were both in a ruinous state. Wish- 
ing to introduce himself with some eclat to the 
county, he got temporary erections made on 
the banks of Ayr, tastefully decorated with 
shrubs and flowers, for a supper and ball, to 
which most of the respectable families in the. 
country were invited. It was a novelty, and 
; attracted much notice. A dissolution of parlia- 
! rnent was soon expected, and this festivity was 
1 thought to be an introduction to a canvass for 
representing the county. Several other candi- 
j dates were spoken of. particularly Sir John 
1 Whitefoord, then residing at Cloncaird. com- 
; monlv pronounced Glencaird, and Mr. Boswell, 
I the well-known biographer ot Dr. Johnson. 
I The political views of this festive assemblage, 
which are alluded to in the ballad, if they ever 
existed, were, however laid aside, as Mr. Cun- 
ninghame did not canvass the county." 

Note 231, p. loo.—" He blushed for shame, he 
quat his name." There is an old superstition, 
that, out of the slough of adders, are formed;the 
pretty annular pebbles, which have, of late 
years, become so popular, when polished, for 
mounting as jewels. 

Note 232, p. 101. —"Handsome Nell." This was 
the first attempt of Burns inverse. It was com- 
posed, according to his own account, in his six- 
teenth vear, on a "bonnie sve r 'tsonsielass." who 
was bis companion on the harvest field See his 
letter to Dr. Moore. He says elsewhere— "For 
my own part, I never had the least inclination 
of'turning, poet, till I once got heartily in love, 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 



and then rhyme and song- were, in a manner, the 
.spontaneous language of my heart. This com- 
position was the first of my performances, and 
done at an early period of life, when my heart 
glowed with honest, warm simplicity, unac- 
quainted and nncorrupted with the ways of a 
wicked world. The performance is, indeed, very 
puerile and silly; but I am always pleased with 
it, as it recalls to my mind those happy days 
Avhen my heart was yet honest, and my tongue 
was sincere.'' 

Note 283, p. 102.— "My father was a farmer.'' 
This autobiographical song, as it may be called, is 
understood to have been composed during the 
most depressed period of the poet's early for- 
tunes, when struggling with family distresses 
at Lochlie. "It is a wild rhapsody," he says, 
"miserably deficient in versification; but as the 
sentiments arc the genuine feelings of my heart, 
I have a particular pleasure in conning it over." 

Note 204, p. 101.— "Robin." It has been said 
that there was some foundation in fact fur this 
tale of a gossip— a wayfaring woman, who 
chanced to be present at the poet's birth, having 
actually announced some such prophecies re- 
specting the infant placed in her arms. Some 
similar circumstances attended the birth of 
Mirabea. 

Note 235, p. 101.— "Her flowing locks." This 
little fragment was composed in consequence of 
a momentary glimpse which the poet one day 
obtained of a beautiful young female, who rode 
up to an inn at Ayr, as the poet was mounting 
his horse to leave it. 

Not.' 23U. p. Kil.—" The sons of Old Killic." 
lullie, a familiar appellation among the country 
people for Kilmarnock: This song was com- 

Soscd in allusion to a meeting of the Kilmarnock 
lason Lodge, which took place in 1780, and at 
which William Parker, one of the poet's oldest 
friends, presided, and which Burns himself at- 
tended. The song was an impromptu, and was 
sung, a^ it is believed, at this very meeting. 

Note 237. p. 107.— "The Laddies by the Banks 
o' Nith." This ballad Is, as well as some oi ;ho-e 
which have preceded it, dedicated to the tur- 
moil of the parliamentary election at Dumfries. 
in which Burns took as active a part as he well 
could on the Tory side :— to wit, in the election 
of 171)0. In the •■Five Carlines." as well as in 
the " Second Epistle to Mr. Graham of Fintry," 
the poet appeared to reserve a neutral position, 
merely sketching the events as they occurred; 
and. iii fact, it was obvious, seeing his depen- 
dency upon a government situation, that he 
.should observe some measure in his political 
writings. Burns's genius had moreover ac- 
quired for him friends amongst men of all par- 
ties, many of whom, in the heat of a political 
contest, might have felt aggrieved at any un- 
called-for violence on his part. The secret 
Jaeobitish yearnings of Burns naturally im- 
pelled him to the side of Sir James Johnstone, 
the Tory and Pittite candidate, whilst being the 
tenant of Mr. Miller, father of the Whig or Oppo- 
sition candidate, to whom he was indebted for 
much personal kindness, he could not well sig- 
nalize himself by any very decided exertion 
against Mr. Miller the vounger. In this ballad, 
"The Laddies of the Banks o' Nith," he does 
not retain such very decided neutrality, and 
pretty clearly allows his Tory predilections to 
ooze out. It must be noticed, however, that the 
Toryism of Burns was merely a traditionary 
love for the native Scotch race of princes, and a 
detestation for the usurping dynasty (as he 
thought) of Brunswick; for, in abstract political 
principles, it may easily be gathered from his 
writings that he. had a far greater leaning to- 
wards Jacobinism than towards the exploded 
principle of the divine right of kings. Sir Walter 
Kcott, writing to Mr. Lockhart, with an enclo- 
sure of a parcel of letters of Burns, says : — " In 



one of them to that singular old curmudgeon, 
Lady Winifred Constable, yon will see he plavs 
high Jacobite, and on that account it is curious ; 
though I fancy his Jacobitism, like mine, be- 
longed to the fancy, rather than to the reason. 
He was, however, a great Pittite down to a cer- 
tain period— that is, until the influx afjacobinisi.i 
from the outbreak of 1789, when he certainly be- 
came more decidedly Jacobin than Jacobite. 

Note 238, p. 107.—" On Captain Francis Grose." 
Captain Grose himself was the first and most 
earnest to relish the point of this epigram. It 
was an impromptu of one of the drinking parties, 
or nightly carousals, of these " guid fellows." 

Note 239, p. 108— " Written under the Picture 
of the celebrated .Miss Burns." The Miss Burns 
who was the subject of these lines, was a young 
Englishwoman, settled in Edinburgh — as re- 
markable for the laxity of her demeanour, as 
for the exquisite beauty of her person. Sh : 
figured in the less rigid society of some of out- 
wits, and her portrait was engraved and pub- 
lished by Mr. John Kay. It was on one of these 
engravings that Burns wrote the lines which it 
suggested. 

Note 240, p. 108 —"Written on a pane of glass 
in the inn at Moffat." These lines were in 
reply to a question put to the poet: "Where- 
fore Miss Davies (a particular favourite of 
Burns's) should have been made so diminutive, 
and another lady, named, so large in propor- 
tion?" 

Note 241, p. 108.— "Fragment." The occasion 
which suggested these lines was the receipt of 
intelligence that the Austrian* had been totally 
routed at Uemappes, by General Dumburier 

(1792). 

Note 242. p. 108.—'- On Incivility shown him at 
Inverary. Burns, accompanied by a friend, 
having gone to Inverary at a time when some 
company was there on a visit to his Grace the 
Duke of Argyle, finding himself and his com- 
panion entirely neglected by the innkeeper, 
whose whole attention seemed to be. occupied 
with the visitors of his Grace, expressed his dis- 
approbation of the incivility with which he was 
treated in the above lines. 

Note 243. p. 108.— "The solemn League and 
Covenant." Spoken, in replv to a gentleman, 
who sneered at the suffering of Scotland forcon- 
pciencc-pake. and called the Solemn League and 
Covenant ridiculous and fanatical. 

Note 244, p. 109 —"The True Loyal Natives." 
These were a society of friends of the govern- 
ment -who av-umeii ;i n exclusive loyalty during 
the fervours of the French Revolution. The 
above lines were written in consequence of the 
receipt, at a convivial meeting, of the following 
senseless quatrain from one of the Loyal Na- 
tives:— 

"Ye sons of sedition, give ear to my song. 

Let Syme, Burns, and Maxwell, pervade every 

throng, 
With Cracken the attorney, and Mundell the 

quack. 
Send Willie the monger to hell with a smack." 

Note 24.>. p. 109.—" The Creed of Poverty." 
When the Board of Excise informed Burns that 
his business was to act, and not to think and 
speak, he read the order to a friend, turned the 
paper, and wrote what he called "The Creed of 
Poverty." 

Note 240. p. 109.—" Epistle to John Taylor." 
These lines were addressed to John Taylor, 
hlaeksmith. at Wanlockhead, on being indebted 
to him, one winter's clay, between Dumfries- 
shire and Avrshire. for a small cast of his office. 

Note 247, p. 109.— - Written on a window." 
This was at the " King's Arms," Dumfries, and 
was suggested by hearing some person speak in 
terms of reproach of the officers of his Majcstv'r 



Note 248, p. 100.-" On Jessy Lewars." This 
lady, in her early days, was an intimate friend 
of Mrs. Burns, and also a great favourite with 
the poet, who esteemed her sprightly and affec- 
tionate character. Daring his last illness, his 
surgeon, Mr. Brown, brought in a long sheet, 
containing the particulars of a menagerie of 
wild beasts which he had just been visiting. 
As Mr. Brown was handing the sheet to Miss 
Lewars, Burns seized it, and wrote upon it these 
verses with red chalk; after which he handed 
it to Miss Lewars, saying that it was now fit to 
be presented to a lady. Miss Lewars afterwards 
married Mr. James Thomson, of Dumfries. 

Note 240, p. 109.— '-To the same." While Miss 
Lewars was waiting upon him in his sick 
chamber, the poet took up a crystal goblet con- 
taining wine and water, and after writing upon 
it these verses, in the character of a Toast, pre- 
sented it to her. 

Note 250, p. 100.—" Epitaph on the same." At 
this time of trouble, on Miss Lewars complain- 
ing of indisposition, he said, to provide for the 
worst, he would write her epitaph. He accord- 
ingly inscribed these lines on another goblet, 
saving, "That will be a companion to the 
Toast. 

Note 251. p. no— " On a Young Lady. 1 ' Char- 
lotte Hamilton. 



Note 252, p. 113.— The Poet's Welcome to his 
Illegitimate Child." The subject of these verses 
was the poet's illegitimate daughter, whom in 
•'The Inventory" he styles his 

"Sonsy, smirking, dear-bought Bess." 

She was married to Mr. John Bishop, overseer, 
at Polkemmet, near Whitburn, and is long dead. 

Note 253, p. 113.— "Inform him, and storm 
him " Threaten. 

Note 254, p. 115.— "Sweet closes the Evening." 
Written on Miss Lorimer. aftewards Mrs. 
Whelpdale, a flame of Burns, who lived at 
Craigieburh, near to Moffat. 

Note 255, p. 11C— "Ae fond Kiss." Written on 
his parting from Clarinda. The verses are 
beautiful : but the idea of either party being 
" broken-hearted" is purely fanciful. 

Note 256, p. 117. — "The Guidv, iie of Wauchope 
House" was the late talented Mrs. Scott, of 
Wauchope. 

Note 257, p. 119.— "On Tam the Chapman." 
One Kennedy of Ayr. who had recovered from 
an illness, and met the poet. 

Note 253. p. 121.— "A friend above the Lift." 
Burns sent also a copy of these lines to his friend 
Aiken. 

Note 259, p. 123. — "Benledi." A mountain 
west of Strath-Allan, 3.000 feet hitrh. 



CrL S SARY. 



Ttte ch and ph have always the guttural sound. The sound of the English diphthong oo is com- 
monly spelled ou. The French it. a sound which often occurs in the Scottish language, is marked 
oo, or iti. The a in genuine Scottish words, except when forming a dipthong, or followed by an e 
mute after a single omsonant, sounds generally like the hroad English a in wall. The Scottish 
diphthong «\ very often, sound like the French e masculine. The .Scottish diphthong cu. sounds 
like the Latin ci. ' 



A\ all 

Aback, away, aloof 

Abeigh, at a shy distance 

Abooii, above, iip 

Abread, abroad, in sight 

Abreed, in breath 

Addle, putrid water, fcc. 

Ac, one [tated 

AIT, oiT ; aff loof, nnpreincdi- 

Afore, before 

Aft, oft 

Aften, often 

Agley, off the right line, wrong 
Aiblins, perhaps 

Ain, own 

Airle-penny, Alrlcs, carnesl 

money 
Aim, iron 
Aith, an oath 
Aiver. an old horse 
Aizle, a hot cinder 
Make, alas 
Alane, alone 
Akwart. awkward 
Ainaist, almost 
Amang, among 
An', and, if 
Ance. once 
Ane, one, and 
Anent, over, against 
Anithcr, another 
Ase. ashes 

Asklent. asquint: nslant 
Asteer, abroad: stirring 
Athart, thwart 
Aught, possession; as. Tn a* my 

aught, in all my posses-j,,n 
Auld lang svne, olden time 
Auld, old 
Anidfarran, or. auld farrant. 

sagacious, cunning, prudent 
Ava, at all 
Awa'. away 
Awfu', awful 

Awn, the beard of barley, e:e. 
Awnie, bearded 
Ay out, beyond 

B. 

Ba\ ball 

Backets, ash boards 
Backlins, comimr ; returning 
Baek. returning 
Bad. did bid 

Baide, endured: did stay 
Baggie, the belly 
Bainie, having large hones 
stout 



Bairn, 
Ba 



niiii 



child 



:i family of children; 



Baith, both 

Ban, to swear 

Bane, bon • 

Bang, to beat: to strive 

Bardie, diminutive of bard 

l'.areiit, barefooted 

Barmie, of, or like barm 

Batch, a crew, a gailjj 

Batts, bots 

Bandrons, acal 

Bauld, bold 

Hawk, bank 

Bawsn't. having a whil 

down tli 
Be, to let it be; to give over 
Hear, barley 

le-astie. diminutive of beast 
Beet, t.. add fuel to tire 
Held, bald 
Belyve, by and by 
Ben, into t lie speuceor parlour: 
> a spencc 
Benloinond, a noted mountain 

in Dumbartonshire 
Bethankit. grace after meat 
Beuk, a book 
Bicker, a kind of wood dish : a 

short race 
Hie, or Bicld, shelter 
Bien, wealthy, plentiful 
Hi- to build 
Biggiu, building; a house 

milt 
Bill, a bull 

Billie, a brother: a young fellow 
Hin-. a heap of -rain, potatoes, 
Hirk, birch [&c. 

Birken-shaw, Birchen -wo..hI- 

shaw, a small wood 
Hirkie, a clever fellow 
Birring, the noise of partridges, 

&c, when then- spring 
Bit, crisis ; nick of time 
Bizz. a bustle: to buzz 
Blastie, a shrivelled dwarf; a 

term of contempt 
Blastit, blasted 
Blate, bashful, sheera.-h 
B'ather. bladder 
Hladd, a flat piece; anything: 

to slap 
Hlaw. to blow; to boast 
Hleerit, bleared : sore with 

rheum 
Hleert and blin", bleared and 

blind 



Bleczing. blazing 

Hlellum, an idol, talking fellow 

Blether, talk idly, nonsense 

Blink, a little while: a smiling 
look ; to shine by fits 

Blinker, a term of contempt 

Blinkin, smirking 

Blue-gown, one of those heir- 
gars who get annually, on the 
sovereign's birth-day, a blue 
cloak or gown, with a badge 

Bluid, blood 

Blunt ie, a sniveller, a stupid 
person 

H ype, a shred; a large piece 

Bock, to vomit, to gush inter- 
mittently 

B idle, a small gold coin 

Bogles, spirits : goblins 

Bonnie, or Bonny, handsome 

Bonnock, a kind of thick cake 
of bread; a small jannock, or 
loaf made of oatmeal 

Boord, a board 

Boortree, the shrub elder: 
planted much of old in hedge.-, 
of barn-yards. Arc. 

Boost, behaved: must needs 

Bore, a bole in the wall 

Botch, an angry tumour 

Bousing, drinking 

Bow-kail, cabbage 

Bowt, bended ; crooked 

Brackens, fern 

Brae, a declivity; a precipice 

Braid, broad 

Braingd't. reeled forward 

Braik, a kind of harrow 

Braindgc, to rush, rashly for- 
ward 

Brak. broke: made insolvent 

Branks, a kind of wooden curb 
for horses 

Brash, a sudden illness 

Brats, coarse clothes, rags, Arc 

Brattle, a short race: hurry; 
fury 

Braw. fine, handsome 

Brawlv. or brawlie. very well 

Braxie. a morbid sheep 

Breastie, diminutive of breast 

Breastit. did spring up or for- 
ward 

Breckan, fern 

Breef, an irresistible spell 

Breeks, breeches 

Brent, smooth 

Brewin', brewing 

Brje, juier, liquid 



Brig, a bridge 

Bruustane. brimstone 

Brisket, the breast, the bosom 

Brither, a brother 

Brock, badger 

Brogue, a hum, a trick 

Broose. broth : a race at country 
weddings, v.- ho snail firstreaeh 
the bridegroom's house on 
returning from the church 

Browster - wives, ale - house- 
wives 

Brugh, a burgh 

Bruzlzie, a broil: a combustion 

Brunt, did burn: burnt 

Brust, to burst ; burst 

Buchan-bnllers. the boiling of 
the sea among the rocks of 
Buchan 

Buckskin, an inhabitant of Vir- 
ginia 

Bught, a pen 

Bughtin-time, tlie time of col- 
lecting the sheep in the pens 
to be milked 

Bnirdly, stout made ; broad 
made 

Bumclock, a humming -beetle 
that flies in the summer even- 



ings 



s bees 



Bumming, humming 

Buminle, to blunder 

Bunker, a window-seat 

Bardies, diminutive of birds 

Bure, did bear 

Burn, water; a rivulet 

Burnewin. i.e., burn the wind ; 
a blacksmith 

Burnie, diminutive of burn 

Buskie, hushey 

Buskit, dressed 

Busks, dresses 

Bussle. a bustle ; to bustle 

Buss, shelter 

But, bot, with: without 

But an' ben, the country kit- 
chen and parlour 

By liunsel. lunatic, distracted 

Byke, a bee-hive 

Byre, a cow-stable ; a sheep- 
pen 

C. 



Gat, or Ca'd, called, driven; 
calved 

Cadger, a carrier 

Cache, or Caddie, a person; a 
voung fellow 

Caff, chaff 

Cairo*, a tinker 

Cairn, a loose heap of stones 

Calf-ward, a small enclosure for 
calves 

Callan, a boy 

Caller, fresh; sound; refresh- 
ing 

Canie. or Cannie, gentle ; mild; 
dexterous 

Cann lie, dexterously 

Cantie, or Canty, cheerful: 
merry 

Cantrip, a charm: a spell 

Cape-stane, cope-stone; key- 
stone 

Gareerin, cheerfully 

Carl, an old man - 

Carlin, a stout old woman 

Cartes, cards 

Caudron, a cauldron 

Cauk and keel, chalk and red 
clay 



GLOSSARY. 

Cauld, cold 

Caup, a wooden drinking-vosi«.-l 

Cesses, taxes 

Chanter, a part of a bagpipe 

Chap, a person ; a fellow ; a 
blow 

Chaup. a stroke; a blow 

Cheekit, cheeked 

Cheep, a chirp ; to chirp 

Chiel. or Cheel, a young fellow 

Chimin, or Chimlie, a fire-grate, 
a fire-place 

Chimla-lug, the fireside 

Cluttering, shivering; trem- 
bling 

Chockin, choking 

Chow, to chew 

Chuffie, fat-faced 

Clachau, a small village about 
a church; a hamlet 

Claise, or Claes, clothes 

Haitii. cloth 

Claivers, nonsense; not speak- 
ing sense 

Clap, clapper of a mill 

Clarkit. wrote 

Clash, an idle tale, the story of 
the day 

Clatter, to tell idle stories ; an 
idle story 

Claught, snatched at ; laid hold 
of 

Claut, to clean ; to scrape 

Clavers, idle stories 

Claw, to scratch 

Cleed, to clothe 

Clecde, clothes 

Cleekit, having canght 



, jerl 



Clinkumbell. 



Cli! 



: ring: 



Cli-hmaclaver, idle conversa-. 

tion 
('lock, to hatch : a beetle 
Clockin, hatching 
Cloot, the hoof of a cow, sheep, 

Clootie, an old name for the 
devil 

Clour, a bump or swelling al't.T 
a blow 

Cluds, clouds 

Coaxin. wheedling 

Coble, a fishing-boat 

Cockernony. a lock of hair tied 
upon a girl's head; a cap 

Coft, bought 

Cog, a wooden dish 

Coggie, diminutive, of r,-,- 

Coila. from Kvle, a district of 
Ayshire; sol-ailed, saith tra- 
dition, from Coil, or Coilus. 
a Pictish monarch 

Collie, a general and sometimes 
a particular name for country 
curs 

Collieshangie, quarrelling; an 
uproar 

Commaun, command 

Good, the cud 

Coof. a blockhead ; a ninny 

Cookit. appeared and disap- 
peared by fits 

Coost, did cast 

Coot, the ankle or foot 

Cootie, a wooden kitchen-dish : 
—also, those fowls whose legs 
are clad with feathers are said 
to be cootie 

Corbies, a species of the crow 

Core, corps : partv : clan 

Ccrn't, fed with oats 



211 

Cotter, the inhabitant of a cot- 
house, or cottager 

Couthie, kind; loving 

Cove, a cave 

Cowe, to terrify : to keen under : 
to lop fright : a branch of 
furze, brotn, &e 

Cowp, to barter ; to tumble 
over ; a gang 

Cowpit, tumbled 

Cowrin, cowering 

Cowt, a colt 

Cozie, snug 

Crabbit, crabbed: fretful 

Crack, conversation ; to con- 
verse 

Crackin. conversing 

Craft, or Croft, a field near a 
house (hi old husbandry) 

Craiks, cries or calls inces- 
santly ; a bird 

Crambo-clink or Crambo-jingle, 
rhymes ; doggrel verses 

Crank, the noise of an un- 
gi eased wheel 

Crnnkous. fretful: captious 

Cranreuch, the hoar frost 

Crap, a crop; to crop 

Craw, a crow of a cock; a rook 

Creel, a basket ; to have one's 
wits in a creel, to be crazed; 
to be fascinated 

Croepie-stool, the same ascuttv- 
stool 

Cresshie, greasy 

Crood, or Croud, to coo as a 
dove 

Croon, a hollow and continued 
moan ; to make a noise like 
the continued roar of a bull; 
to hum a tune 

Crouchie. crook-backed 

Grouse, eheerfuily ; courage- 
ously 

Crowdie, a composition of oat- 
meal and boiled water, some- 
time from the broth of beef, 
mutton, &c 

Crowdie-time, breakfast time 

Crowlin, crawling 

Crummock, a cow with crooked 
horns 

Crump, hardand brittle ; spoken 
of bread 

Grunt, a blow on the head with 
a cudgel 

Cuif, a blockhead, a ninny 

Cummock. a short staff with a 
crooked head 

Curchie, a courtesy 

Curler, a player at a game on 
the ice. practised in Scotland, 
called curling 

Curlie, curled; whose hair falls 
naturally in ringlets 

Curling, a' well-known game on 
the ice 

Curmurring, murmuring 

Curpin, the crupper 

Cushat, the dove, or wood- 

- pigeon 

Cutty, short; a spoon broken 
in the middle 

Cutty-stool, the stool of re- 
pentance ' 

D. 

Daddie, a father 

Baffin, merriment ; foolishness 

Daft, merry; giddy; foolish 

Dainien. rare; now and then; 
daimen-icker, an ear of corn 
now and then 



212 

Dainty, pleasant ; good • hu- 
moured 

Dalse, daez; to stupify 

Dales, plains: valleys 

Darklins, darkling 

Daud. to thrash; to abuse 

D'aiir, to dare 

J)aurt, dared 

Daurg, or Danrk, a day's la- 
bour 

Davoc, David 

Dawd, a large piece 

Daw-tit, or Dawtet, fondled : 
caressed 

Dearies, diminutive of d 

Dearthfu'. dear 

J)eave, to deafen 

Deil-ma-care, no matter; for 
all that 

Deleerit. delirious 

Descrive, to describe 

Dight, to wipe; to clean corn 
from chaff 

Ding, to worst ; to push 

Dink, neat; tidy; trim 

Di ma, do not 

Did, a slight tremulous stroke 



Dmted, stupified ; hebetated 
Dolt, stupified ; crazed 
Donsie, unlucky 

Dool, sorrow; to sing dool; to 

lament; to mourn 
Duos, doves 
Dorty, saucy : nice 
Douce, or Dout 

prudent 
Doucely, soberly; pnidently 
Dought. was or were able 
Doup, backside 
Doup-skclpcr, one that strike-; 

tlie tail 
Dour and din, sullen and sallow 
Doure, stout; durable; sullen; 

stubborn 
Dow, aua or are able : can 
Down, pithless, wantii - 
1 »owie, worn with grief, fatigue, 

iV-c. ; half asleep 
Downa, am or are not able : can- 
not 
i »oylt, stupid 

Dozent. stupified; impotent 
Drap, a drop : to drop 
Draigle, to soil 

draggle among wet, itc 
Drapping, dropping 
Draunting, drawling; of a slow 

enunciation 
Drcep, to ooze; to drop 
Dix-igh. tedious; long about it 
Dribble, drizzling; slaver 
Drift, a 

Droddum, the breech 
Drone, part of a I 
Droop-rumpl't, that droops at 

the (- ' 
Droukit, wet 
Drohting, drawling 
Drouth, "thirst ; drought 
Drnckeh, drunken 
Drttmly, muddy 
Drummock, meal and water 

mixed in a raw state 
Drunt, pet; sour humour 
Dub, a small pond 
Duds, rags : clothes 
Dud die, ragged 

Dung, worsted; pushed: driven 
Dunted. beaten; boxed 
Dash, to push as a ram. <£c 
Dusht, pushed by a ram, ox. &c. 



BfJRXS" POETICAL WORKS. 
E. 



I E'e. the eye 

E'en, the eyes 
I E'ening. evening 

Eerie. frighted; dreadingspirlis 

Eild. old age 

Flbuck. the elbow 

Eldritch, ghastly: frightful 

Eller, an elder, or churcli uiiieer 

En', end 

Enbrugh, Edinburgh 

Enengh, eiiodgh 

Esneeial. ■--■ eeially 

Ettle. to try: to attempt 

Eydent, diligent 

F. 

Fa', fall: lot; to fall 

Fa's, does fall : water-falls 

Faddom't, fathomed 

Fae. a foe 

Faem. foam 

Faiket, unknown 

Fairn, a fairing; a present 

Fallow, fellow 

Fand. did find 

Farl. a cake of oaten bread. «vc 

Fash, trouble ; care : to trouble : 
to care for 

Fasht. troubled 

Fasteren-e'en, Fasters Even 

Fauld. a fold: to fold 

Faulding, folding 

Faut, fault 

Faute, want: lack 

Fawsont, decent ; seemly 

Feal, a Held ; smooth 

Fearfu'. frightful 

Feart, frighted 

Feat, neat j spruce 

Fecht, to flght 

Fechtin, lighting 

Feck, many ; plenty 

Fecket, au under - waistcoat 
with sleeves 

Feckfu", large : brawny : 

Feckless, puny ; weak 

Fecklv, weakly 

Feg, a fig 

Feide. feud, enmity 

Feirrie, stout; vigorous: heal- 
thy 

Fell, keen: biting: the fl<--h 
immediately under the skin: 
a field pretty level, on the 
side or top of a hill 

Fen. su 

Fend, to live comfortably 

Ferlie, or Ferley. to w 
wonder: a term of contempt 

Fetch, to pull by fit- 

Fetch't. pulled intermittently 

Fidge. to fidget 

Fiel. soft ; smooth 

Fient, fiend: a petty oath 

Fier, sound; healthy: a brother 

Fissle, to make a rnstlii 
to fidget ; a bustle 

Fit, a foot ' 

Fittie-lan'. the 1 
the hindmost pair in the 
plough 

Fizz, to make a hissi:.. 
like fermentation 

Flainen. flannel 

Fleech. to supplicate in a flat- 
tering manner 

Fleech d, supplicated 

Fleechin". supplicating 

Fleesh. a fleece 
; Fleg. a kick : a random stroke 
■ Flether, to decov by fair words 
1 Fletherin, flattering 



Fley, to scare, to frighten 

Flieliter, to flutter as voting 
nestlings when their dam ap- 
proaches 

Flinders, sheds ; broken pieces ; 
splinters 

Flinging-tree, a piece ol I 
hung by way of partition be- 
tween two horses in a stable ; 
a flail 

Flisk, to fret at the yoke 

Flisked, fretted 

Flitter, to vibrate like the wings 
of small birds 

Flittering, fluttering; vibrating 

Flunkie, a servant in livery 

Fodgel, squat and plump 

Foord. a ford 

Forbears, forefathers 

1'orbyc, besides 

Forfairn, distressed: worn out 

Forfoughten, fatigued 

Forgather, to meet; to encoun- 
ter with 

Forgie, to forgive 

Forjesket, jaded with fatigue 

Fother. fodder 

Fou, full: drunk 

Foughten. troubled; harassed 

Fouth. plenty ; enough 

Fow, a bushel, A:c.,abo a pitch- 
fork 

Free, from ; off 

Frammit, strange: estranged 
from, at enmity with 

Freath, froth 

Frieii'. friend 

Kir, full 

Fud.thc scut, or tail 'of the hare, 
cony, Ac 

Fuff. to blow intermittently 

Fulf't. did blow 

Funnie, full of merriment 

Fur. a furrow 

Furm, a form; bench 

Fyke, trifling cares; to piddle, 
to be iua fuss about trifles 

Fyle, to soil, to dirty 

Fyl't, soiled, dirtied 

G. 

Gab, the mouth : to speak bold- 
ly, or pertly 

Gaberlunzie, an old man 

Gadsman. a plougbboy, the boy 
that drives the horses in the 
plough 

Gae, to go; gaed, went; gaen, 
or gane. gone; gauu. going 

Gaet. or Gate, way; manner; 
road 

Gairs. triangular pieces of cloth 
; i'ii the bottom of a 
gown. i'cc. 

Gang, to go; to walk 

(Jar, to make: to force to 

Car't. forced to 

Garten, a garter 

Gash, wise ; sagacious ; talka- 
tive : lo conv 

Gashin. conversing 

Gaucy. jolly: large 

Gaud, a plough 

Gear, riches; goods of any kind 

Geek, to toss the head hi wan- 
tonness or scorn 

(Jed. a pike 

Gentles, great folks; gentry 

Genty. elegantly 

Geordie. a guinea 

Get. a child; a y< u 

Ghaist, a ghost 



Gie, to give ; gied, gave ; glen, 
given 

Giftie. diminutive (if gift 

Giglets. playful girls 

Gillie diminutive of gill 

Gilpey. a half-grown, half-ki- 
formed boy or girl, a romping 
lad, a hoiden 

Gimme r, ail ewe from one to 
two years old 

Gin, if; against 

Gipsy, a young girl 

Girn, to grin: to twist the fea- 
tures in rage, agony, &e. 

Girning, grinning 

Gizz, a periwig 

Glaiket. inattentive; foolish 

Glaive, a sword 

Gawky, haif-wited ; foolish ; 
romping 

Glaizie, glittering; smooth like 
glass 

Glaum, to snatch greedily 

Glaum'd. aimed ; snatched 

Gleck, sharp; ready 

Gleg, sharp; ready 

Glieb, glebe 

Glen, a dale ; a deep valley 

Gley, a squint ; to squint ; a 
gley; off at a side; wrong 

Glib-gabbet, smooth and ready 
in speech 

Glint, to peep 

Glinted, peeped 

Glintin. peeping 

Gloamin, the twilight 

Glowr, to stare ; to look : a 
stare; a look 

Glowred, looked ; stared 

Ghinsh, a frown ; a sour look 

Goavan, looking round with a 
strange, inquiring gaze; star- 
ing stupidly 

Gown, the flower of the wild 
daisy, huwkweed, &:<:. 

Gowony. daisied, abounding 
with daisies 

Gowd, gold 

Gowff, the name of Golf ; to 
strike as a bat does the ball 
at golf 

Gowff ci, struck 

Gowk, a cuckoo ; a term of con- 
tempt 

Gowl, to howl 

Grane, or Grain, a groan; to 
groan 

Grain' d and grunted, groaned 
and grunted 

Graining, groaning 

Graip. a pronged instrument for 
cleaning stables 

Graith, accoutrements ; furni- 
ture; dress; gear 

Grannie, grandmother 

(ii-ade. to grope 

Graiyit, groped 

Grat, wept; shed tears 

Great, intimate ; familiar 

Gree, to agree ; to bear the 
gree; to be decidedly victor 

Gree't, agreed 

Greet, to shed tears; to weep 

Greetiu, crying; weeping 

Grippet. catched ;. seized 

Groat, to get the whistle of one's 
groat ; to plaj- a losing game 

Grousome, loathsomely grim 

Grozet, a gooseberry 

Grumph, a grunt ; to grunt 

Grumphie, a sow 

Grun\ ground 

Grunstane, a grindstone 



GLOSSARY. 

Gruntle, the phiz ; a grunting 
noise 

Grunzie, mouth 

Grushie, thick ; of a thriving 
growth 

Gude, the Supreme Being, good 

Geid, good 

Gu id-morning, good morrow 

Gniii-e'en, good evening 

Guidman and guidwii'e, the 
master and mistress of the 
house; young guidman, a man 
newly married 

Guid-willie, liberal; cordial 

Guidfather. .guidmother. father- 
in-law, and mother-in-law 

Gully, or Gullie, a large knife 

Gumlie, muddy 

Gusty, tasteful 

II. 
Ha', hall 

Ila'-Hible. tiie great Bible ihat 
lies in the hail 

II ae, to have 

Haen, had; tlie participle 

Haet, fient haet, a petty oath of 
negation; nothing 

Ilaffet, the temple; the side of 
the head 

Ilafliins, nearly half, partly 

Hag, a scar, or gulf in mosses 
or moors 

Haggis, a kind of pudding 
boiled in the stomach of a cow 
or a sheep 

Hain, to spare ; to save 

Hain'd spared 

Ilairst, harvest 

Haith, a petty oath 

Ilaivers, nonsense ; speaking 
without thought 

Hal' or Hald. an abiding-place 

Hale, whole ; tight ; healthy 

Haly, holy 

Hame, home 

Hallun. a particular partition- 
wall in a cottage, or more pro- 
perly, a seat of turf at the out 
side 

Hallowmas, Hallow-eve, the 
01st of October 

Hamelv. homely; affable 

Han', or Haun', hand 

Hap, an outer garment: man- 
tle, plaid, ifec. ; to wrap ; to 
cover; to hop 

Happer, a hopper 

Happing, hopping 

Hap step an' loup, hop skip and 
leap 

Harkit, hearkened 

Harn, very coarse linen 

Hash, a fellow that neither 
knows how to dress nor act 
with propriety 

Hastit, hastened 

Hand, to hold 

liaughs. low Iving rich lands 

Hand, to drag; to peel 

Haurlin, peeling 

Havered, a half-witted person 

Havins, good manners : de- 
corum 

Hawkie, a cow, properly one 
with a white face 

Heapit, heaped 

Healsome, healthful ; whole- 
some 

Hearse, hoarse 

Hear't, hear it 

Heather, heath 

Hech, oh; strange 



Ilecht, promised; to foretell 
something that is to be got 
or given; foretold; the thing 
foretold; offered 

Heckle, a board, in which are 
fixed a number of sharp pins, 
used in dressing hemp, <fec. 

Heeze, to elevate, to raise 

Helm, the rudder or helm 

Herd, to tend flocks 

Herrin, a herriu 

Herry, to plunder 

Herryment, plundering; de- 
vastation 

Hersei, herself: also a herd of 
cattle, of any sort 

Het, hot 

Heugh, a. crag; a coalpit 

Hilch. a hobble ; to halt 

Hilchin, halting 

Himsel, himself 

Hiney, honey 

Hing, to hang 

Ilirple, to walk lazily; to creep 

Hissel, so many cattle as one 
person can attend 

Hastie, dry: chapped; barren 

Hitch, a loop ; a knot 

Ilizzie, a hussy ; a young girl 

Hoddin, the motion of a sage 
countryman riding on a cart- 
horse; humble 

Hog-score, a kind of distance 
line, in curling, drawn across 
the rink 

Hog-snouther, a kind of horse 
play, by justling with the 
shoulder ; to justle 

Hool, outer skin or case ; a nut- 
shell ; a peascod 

Hoolie, slowly ; leisurely 

Hoolie! take leisure ; stop 

Hoord. a hoard ; to hoard 

Hoordit, hoarded 

Horn, a spoon made of horn 

Hornie, one of the many names 
of the devil [cough 

Host, or hoast, to cough; a 

Hostin, coughing 

Hosts, coughs 

Hotch'd, turn'd topsy-turvy; 
blended ; mixed 

EToughmagandie, fornication 

Houlet, an owl 

Hoiisie, diminutive of house 

Hove, to heave; to swell 

Hoved. heaved ; swelled 

Howdie, a midwife 

Howe, hollow; a hollow or dell 

Howebackit, sunk in the back, 
spoken of a horse, etc. 

Howff, a tinplig-house ; a 
house of resort 

Howk. to dig 

Howkit, digged 

Howkin, digging 

Howlet, an owl 

Hoy, to urge 

Hoy'd, urged 

Hoyse, to pull upwards 

Hoyte, to amble crazily 

Hnghoc, diminutive of Hugh 
Hurcheon. a hedgehog 
Hardies, the loins ; the crupper 
Hushion, a cushion 

I. 

I', in 

Icker, an ear of corn 
Ier-oe, a great-grandchild 
Ilk, or ilka, each; every 
Ill-willie, ill - natured : mali- 
cious, niggardly 



Inginc, genius: ingenuity 
Ingle, fire, fire-place 
Ise, I shall or will 
Ithe'r other ; one another 

J. 

Jad, jade ; also a familiar term 
among country folks for a 
giddy young girl 

.Tank, to daily; to trifle 

Jaukin, trifling; dallying 

Janp, a jerk of water; to jerk 
as agitated water 

Jaw, coarse raillery; to pour 
out to shut; to jerk as 
water 

Jerkinet, a jerkin; or short 
gown 

Jillet, a jilt; a giddy girl 

Jimp, to jump: sl-iidcr in the 
waist; handsome 

Jiinps, easy stays 

.link, to dodge; to turn a cor- 
ner; a sudden turning; a 
corner 

Jinker, that turns quickly; a 
gay sprightlv girl: a wag 

Jinklii, dodging 

J irk, a jerk 

Jocteleg, a kind of knife 

Jouk, to stoop; to bow the 
head 

Jow. to jow: a verb which in- 
cludes both the swinging 
motion and pealing sound of 
a large bell 

Jundie, t<> justle 



Kain, fowls ^c, paid a 

by a farm >r 
Kebbuck, a cheese 
Keekle, to giggle; to titter 
Keek, a peep ; to peep 
Kelpies, a sort of mischievous 

spirits, said t<> haunt fords 

and ferries at nighr, especially 

in storms 
Ken, to know; kend or kenn'd. 

knew 
Kennin, a small matter 
Kenspeckle, well known ; easily 

known 
Ket, matted, hairy : a fj 

wool 
Kilt, to truss up the clothes 
Khnmer. a voting girl, a go^ip 
Kin. kindred: kin - , kind. adj. 
King's-hood. a certain part of 

the entrails of an ox, ifcc. 
Kintra. country 

Kintra Cooser; country stal- 
lion 
Kirn, the harvest supper; a 

churn 
Kirsen, to christen, or baptize 
Kist, a chest ; a shop counter 
Kitchen, anything that oats 

with bread ; to serve forsonp, 

gravy, dec. 
Kith, kindred 
Kittle, a tickle; ticklish; lively, 

apt 
Kittlin, a young cat 
Kiuttle, to cuddle 
Kiuttlin, cuddling 
Knaggie, like knags, or points 

of rocks 
Knap, to strike smartlv.a smart 

blow 



BURNS POETICAL WORKS. 

Kuappin-hammer, a hammer 

for breaking stones 
Knowe, a small round hillock 
Knurl, a dwarf 
Kye, cows 

Kvle, a district in Ayrshire 
Kyte, the belly 
Kythe, to discover; to show 

one's-self 



Laddie, diminutive of lad 
Laggen. the angle between the 

side and bottom of a wooden 

dish 
Laigh, low 
Lairing, wading, and sinking 

in snow, mud, >i:c. 
Laith. loath 

Laithfu", bashful : sheepr It 
Lallans, the Scottish dialect of 

the English language 
Lainbie, diminutive of lamb 
Lampit, a kind of shell-fish, a 

lirapit ' 
Lan', land; estate 
Lane, lone; my lane, thy lane, 

Ssc; myself alone, &c. 
Lancly. lonely 
Lang, long; to think lang, to 

long, to weary 
Lep, did leap 
Lave, the rest, the remainder, 

the others 
Laverock, the lark 
Lawin. shot: reckoning bill 
Lawlan. lowland 
Lea'e. to leave 
Leal, loyal, true, faithful 
Lea-rig, -ra-sv i i 

Lear (pronounced hire), learn- 
ing 
Lce-lang, live-long 
pleasant 

Lee/.c-me, a phrase of congra- 
tulatory endearment: lain 
happy in thee, or proud ol 
thee 

. a threc-pron'fl dart for 
striking flsh 

Lough, did laugh 

Leuk, a look : to look 

Libbet, gelded 

Lift, the sky 

Lightly, -li'-cringly ; to sneer at 

Lilt, a ballad : a tune; to sing 

Limtner. a kept mistress; a 
strumpet 

Limp't. limped ; hobbled 

Link, to trip along 

Linkin, tripping 

Linn, a waterfall: a precipice 

Lint, flax; Lint i the bell; flax 
in flower 

Lintwhite, a linnet 

Loan, or Loaning, the place of 
milking 

Loot, the palm of the hand 

Loot, did let 

Looves. plural of Loof. 

Loun, a fellow; a ragamuffin; 
a woman of easy virtue 

Loup, jump; leap 

Lowe, a flame 

Lowin, flaming 

Lowrie, abbreviation of Law- 
rence 

Lowse. to loose 

Lows'd, loosed 

Lug. the ear: a handle 

Lngget, having a handle 

Luggie, a small wooden dislj 
with a handle 



Lam. the chimney 

Lunch, a large piece of cheese, 

flesh, etc. 
L.tnt, a column of smoke ; to 

smoke 
Luntin, smoking 
Lyart, of a mixed colour, gray 

M. 

Mae, more 

Mair, more 

Maist, most ; almost 

Maistly, mostly 

Mak. to make 

Makin, making 

Mailen, a farm 

Mallie, Molly 

Mang, among 

Manse, the parsonage-house ; 
where the minister lives 

Mantel le, a mantle 

.Mark, marks (This and several 
other nouns, which in Eng- 
lish require and-, to form the. 
plural, are in Scotch, like the 
words sheep, deer, the same in 
borh numbers) 

.Marled, variegated, spo'ted 

Mar's year, the year 17!.} 

Mashlum, meslin, mixed corn 

.Mask, to mash, as malt, &c 

Maskin-pat, n tea-pot 

.Maud, maad, a plaid worn by 
shepherds. &c. 

Maukin. a hare 

Maun, must 

.Mavis, the thrush 

Maw. to mow 

Mawin, mowing 

Meere. a marc 

Meikle. Meicklc, much 

Melancholious, mournful 

Melder, corn or grain of any 
kind, sent to the mill to be 
ground. 

Moll, to meddle. Also a mallet 
for pounding barley in a stone 
trough 

Mel vie, to soil with meal 

Men - , to mend 

Mense, good manners, decorum 

Menseiess, ill-bred; rude; im- 
pudent 

Me-sin, a small dog 

Midden, a dunghill 

Midden-hole, a gutter at the 
bottom of a dunghill 

Mim, prim : affectedly meek 

-Min - , mind: resemblance 

Mind't, mind it: resolved; in- 
tending 

Minnie, mother: dam 

Mirk, Mirkest, dark, darkest 

Misca'. to abuse ; to call i 

Misca'd, abused 

Mislear'd, mischievous, unman- 
nerly 

Mistcuk. mistook 

Mither, a mother 

Mixtie, Maxtie, confusedly 
mixed 

Moistify. to moisten 

Moiiy. or Monie. many 

Moois. dust: earth: "the earth 
of t tie grave. To rake i' the 
moots, to lay in the dust 

Moop. to nibble as a sheep 

Moorlan", of or belonging to 
M iors 

Morn, the next day, to-morrow 

Mou. the mouth 

Moudiworf. a mole 

Mousie, diminutive of mouse 



Mnckle. or Mickle, great; big; 
much. 

ilusie. diminutive of muse 

lUuslin-kail, broth, composed 
simply of water, shelled bar- 
lev, and greens 

Mutchkin, an English pint 

Mysel, myself 

N. 

Na, no: not; nor 

Nae, no, not any 

Naething, or Naithin, nothing 

Naig, a horse 

Nane, none 

Nappy, ale ; to be tipsy 

Neglcckit, neglected 

Neuk, a nook 

Neist. next 

Nieve, the fist 

Nievefu', handful 

Niffer, an exchange; to ex- 
change ; to barter 

Niger, a negro 

Nine-tailed cat, a hangman's 
whip 

Nit, a nut 

Norland, of or belonging to the 
north 



O. 
0'. of 

Ocliils, name of mountains 
O haith, O faith ! an oath 
Ony, or onie, any 
Or. is often used for ere, 



fore 
Ora, or orra, supernume 

that can be spared 
O't, of it 

Ourie, shivering: drooping 
Oursel, Oursels. ourselves 
Outlers, cattle not housed 
Owre. over ; too 
Owre-hip, a way of fetch! 

l)low with the hammer 

the arm. 



Pack, intimate; familiar; twelve 

stone of wool 
Painch, pauncli 
Paitrick, a partridge 
Pang, to cram 
Parle, speech 
Parritch, oatmeal pudding, a 

well-known Scotch dish 
Pat. did put ; a pot 
Pattle, or Pettle, a plonghstaff 
Paughty, proud : haughty 
Paukie," or Pawkie, cunning: 

sly 
Pay't. paid : beat 
Pech, to fetch the breath short, 

as in asthma 
Pechan, the crop, the stomach 
Peelin, peeling, the rind of fruit 
Pet, a domesticated sheep, etc. 
Pettle, to cherish ; a plough- 
staff 
Philabe.es. short petticoatsworn 

bv the" Highlandmen 
Phfaise. fair speeches; flattery; 

to flatter 
Phraisin. flattery 
Pibroch, Highland war music, 

adapted to the bagpipe 
Pickle, a small quantity 
Pine, pain, uneasiness 
Pit, to put 
Placad, public proclamation 



GLOSSARY. 

Plack, an old Scotch coin, the 
third part of a Scotch penny, 
twelve of which make an 
English penny 

Plackless, pennyless ; without 
money 

Platie, diminutive of plate 

Plew, or Plough, a plough 

Pliskie. a trick 

Poind, to seize cattle or goods 
for rent, as the laws of Scot- 
land allow 

?oortitb, poverty 

Pou, to pull 

Pouk, to pluck 

Poussie, a hare, or cat 

Pout, a poult : a chick 

Pou't, did pull 

Powtherv. like powder 

Pow, the h' ad. the skull 
lie, a little horse 

Powther, or pouther, powder 

Preen, a pin 

it, to print; print 

Prie. to taste 

Prie'd. tasted 

Prief, proof 

Prig, to cheapen; to dispute 

Primsie, demure, precise 

Propone, to lay down: to pro- 
pose 

Provoses, provosts 

Puddock-stool, a mushroom ; 
fungus 

Pund, pound ; pounds 

Pyle,— a 
'grain c 

Q 

Quat, to quit 

Quak, to quake 

-Quey, a cow from one to twe 
years old 

R. 

Ragweed, the herb ragwort 

Raible, to rattle nonsense 

Rair, to roar 

Raize, to madden : to inflame 

Ram-fezzl'd, fatigued; over- 
spread 

Ram-stam, thoughtless ; for- 
ward 

Ranloch, properly a coarse 
cloth ; but used as an adnoun 
for coarse 

Rarely, excellently; very well 

Rash," a rush ; rash-buss, u bush 
of rushes 

Ratton. a rat 

Raucle, rash ; stout ; fearless 

Raught, reached 

Raw, a row- 
Rax, to stretch 

Ream, cream ; to cream 

Reaming, brimful; frothing 

Reave, rove 

Reek, to heed 

Rede, counsel; to counsel 

Red-wat-shod; walking in blood 
over the shoe-tops 

Red-wud, stark mad 

Ree. half drunk; fuddled 

Reek, smoke 

Keekin. smoking 

Reekit. smoked: smoky 

Redmead, remedy 

Requite, requited 

Pest, to stand restive 

Restit. stood restive; stunted; 
withered 

Re -tricked, restricted 

Rew. to repent; to compassion- 
ate 



Rief, reef; plenty 

Rief runuie- ; -nirdv beggars 
Rig. a ridge 

Rigwiddie, rogwoodie; the rope 
or chain that crosses the 
saddle ef a horse to support 
the spokes of a cart; spare; 
withered: sapless 

Rin, to run ; to melt 

Riiinin, running 

Rink, the course of the stones; 
a term in curling on ice 

Rip, a handful of unihreshed 
corn 

Riskit, made a noise like the 
tearing of roots 

Rockin. s; inning en the rock, 
or distaff 

Rood, stands likewise for the 
.ilural roods 

Roon, a shred ; a border or sel- 
vage 

Roose, to praise ; to commend 

Roosty, rusty 

Roun\ round in the circle of 
neighbourhood 

Roupet. hoarse : as with a cold 

Routine, plentiful 

Row. to rool ; to wrap 

Row't, rolled; wrapped 

Rowte, to low ; to bellow 

Routh, or routh; plenty 

Rowtin, lowing 

Rozet, rosin 

Rung, a cudgel 

Runkled, wrinkled 

Runt, the stem of cole wort or 
cabbage 

Ruth, a woman's name; the 
book so called; sorrow 

Ryke, to reach 



Sae, so 

Saft, soft 

Sair, to serve: a sore 

Sairly, or sairlie ; sorely 

Sair't, served 

Sark, a shirt ; a shift 

Sarkit, provided in shirts 

Saugh, the willow 

Saul, soul 

Sanmont, salmon 

Saunt, a saint 

Saut. salt; adj. salt 

Saw to sow 

Sawin, sowing 

Sax. six 

Scaith. to damage; to injure; 

injury 
Scar, a cliff 
Scaud, to scald 
Scauld, to scold 
Scaur, apt to be scard 
Seal, a scold : a termagant 
Scon, a cake of bread 
Sconner, a loathin ; to loathe 
Scraich, to scream as a lien, 

&c. 
•Screed, to tear; a rent 
Scrieve, to glide swiftly along 
Scrimp, to scant 
Sei'inipet, did scant, scanty 
See'd, did see 
Seizin, seizing 
Sel, self; a body's set, onc*s 

self alone 
Sell't, did sell 
Sen', to send 
Sen't, I, <fcc, sent, or did send 

it: send it 
Servan'. servant 
Settlin'. settling; to get a set- 



a6 

tlin; to be frighted into 
quietness 

Sets, sets off ; goes away 

Shackled, distorted ; shapeless 

Shaird, a shred : a shard 

Shangan, a stick cleft at one 
end for put tin the tail of a 
dog. &c., into the by of mis- 
chief, or to frighten him 
away 

Shrver, a humorous wag; a 
barber 

Shaw, to show; a small wood in 
a hollow 

Sheen, bright, shining 

Sheep-shank, to think one's- 
self nae sheep-shank; to be 
conceited 

Sherra-moor, sheriff-moor; the 
famous battle fought in the 
rebellion, a.d. 174G 

Sheugli, a ditch; a trench 

Shiel.-a shed 

Shill, shrll 

Shog, a shoe!;; a push off at 
one side 

School, a shovel 

ShOOll, shoes 

Shore, to offer: to threaten 

Shor'd. offered 

Shoutlier, the shoulder 

Slmre, did shear; shore 

Sic, such 

Sicker, sure: steady 

Sidelins, sidelong: slanting 

Siller, silver: money 

Simmer, summer 

Sin, a son 

• 

Skaith. see scaith 

Skellum. worthless fellow 

Skelp, to strike: to slap: to 
walk a smart tripping step; 
a smart stroke 

Skeljiie-liinmer. a reproachful 
term in female scolding 

Skelpin, stepping; walking 

Skiegh.orskcigh , proud; nice: 
high-mettled 

Skinklin, a small portion 

Skir'. tu shriek; to cry shrilly 

Skirl t, shrieked 
• sklen, slont ; to run aslant; to 
deviate from truth 

Sklentee, ran, or hit, in an 
oblique direction 

Skouth, freedom to converse 
without testraint; range; 
scope 

Skriegh. a scream ; to scream 

Skyrin, shining 

Skyte, force 

Sla'e. a sloe 

Slade, did slide [fence 

Slap, a gate; a breach in a 

Slaver, saliva; to emit saliva 

Slaw, slow 

Slee. sly; sleest ; sliest 

Sleekit, sleek; sly 

Sliddery, slippery 

Slype, to fall over, as a wet fur- 
row from tiie plough 

Sly pet. fell 

Sma*. small 

Smeddum, dust, powder; met- 
tle : sense 

Smiddy, a smithy 

Smoor. to smother 

Smoor'd, smothered 

Smontie, smutty- obscene; 
ugly 

Smytrie. a numerous collection 
of small individuals 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 

Snapper, to stumble 

Snash, abuse, Billingsgate 

Snaw, snow; to snow 

Snaw-broo, melted snow 

Snawie, snowy 

Sneck, snick ; the latch of a 
door 

Sued, to lop; to cut off 

Sneeshin, snuff 

Sneeshin-mill, a snuff-box 

Snell. bitter: biting 

Snick-drawing, trick-contriv- 
ing: crafty 

Snirtle, to laugh restrainedly 

Snood, a ribbon for binding the 
hair 

Snool, one whose spirit is bro- 
ken with oppressive slavery: 
to submit tamely: to sneak 

Snoove, to go smoothly and con- 
stantly ; to sneak 

Snowk, to scent, or snuff, as a 
dog. etc. 

Snowkit. scented: snuffed 

Sonsic, having sweet, engaging 
.looks: lucky; jolly 

Sooin, to swim 

Sooth, truth ; a petty oath 

Sough, a heaw sigh; a sound 
dying in the ear 

Souple, flexible: swift 

Souter, a shoemaker 

Sowcns, a disli made of oat- 
meal: the seeds of oatmeal 
soured, (fee. ; flummery 

Sowp, a spoonful : a small quan- 
tity of anything liquid 

Sowth. to try over a tune with 
a low whistle 

Sowther, solder; to solder; to 
cement 

Spae, to prophesy; to divine 

Spaul, a limb 

. todash; tosoil, as with 
mire 

Spaviet, having the spavin 

Spean, spane ; to wean 

Speat, or Spate, a sv> 
torrent, after rain, or thaw 

Speel, to climb 

Spence, the country parlour 

Spier, to ask : to inquire 

Spier t, inquired 

Splatter, a splutter: to splutter 

Spleughan, tobacco-pouch 

Splore, a frolic: a UOlSC : riot 

Spracklc, sprachlc; toclambcx 

Sprattle, to scramble 

Spreckled, spotted ; speckled 

Spring, a quick air in music; a 
Scottish reel 

Sprit, a tough-rooted plant, 
something like rushes 

Sprittie. full of spirits 

Spunk, fire ; mettle: wit 

Spunkie, liiettlescme : fiery; 
will-o'-wisp. or ignis -fa tnus 

Spurtle, a stick, used in making 
oatmeal pudding or porridge 

Squad, a crew : a party 

Squatter, to flutter in water, as 
a wild duck 

Sqttattle, to sprawl 

Squeel, a scream; a screech; to 
scream 

Stacher, to stagger 

Stack, f ~ick of corn, hay, <fcc. 

Staggie, the diminutive of stag 

Stalwart, strong ; stout 

Stan, to stand ; stan"t. did 
stand 

Stane, a stone 

Stang, to sting ; an acute pain 



Stank, did stink 

Stap, did stop 

Stark, stout 

Startle, to run as cattle stung 
by the gad-fly 

Staumrcl, a blockhead 

Staw, did steal: to surfeit 

Stech, to cram the belly 

Stechin, cramming 

Steck, to shut : a stitch 

Stear, to molest ; to stir 

Steeve, firm; compacted 

Stell, a still 

Stem to rear as a horse 

Stent, reared 

Stents, tribute 

Stey, steep ; stevest: steepest 

Stibble. stubble ; stibbte-rig, the 
reaper in harvest who takes 
the lead 

Stick an' stow, totally; alto- 
gether 

Stile, a crutch : to halt, to limp 

Stimpart, the eighth part of a 
Winchester bushel 

Stirk, a cow or bullock a year 
old 

Stock, a plant or root of cole- 
wort, cabbage, Arc. 

Stockin, a stocking: throwing 
the stocking. When the 

bride and bridegroom are put 
into bed, and the candle out, 
the former throws a stocking 
at random among the com- 
pany, and the person whom it 
strikes is the next that will be 
married. 

Stoiter, to stagger; to stam- 
mer 

Stooked, made up in shocks as 
corn 

Stoor, sounding hollow; strong, 
and hoarse 

Stot, an ox 

Stoup, or stowp. a kind of jug 
or dish with a handle 

Stourc, dust, more particularly 
dust in motion 

Stowlins, by stealth 

Stown, stolen 

Stoyte, to stumble 

Strack, did strike 

■aw: to die a fair strae 
death : to die in bed 

Straik, did strike 

Straikit, stroked 

Strappin. tall and handsome 

Straught. straight 

Streek, stretched; tight 

Striddie, to straddle 

Stroam, to spout ; to piss 

Studdie, an anvil 

Stumpic, diminutive of stump 

Strum, spirituous liquor of any 
kind: to walk sturdily ; huh, 
sullenness 

Stuff, corn or pulse of any kind 

Sturt, trouble ; to molest 

Sturtin, frighted 

Sucker, sugar 

Sud. should 

Sugh, the continued rushing 
noise of wind or water 

Southron, southern; an old 
name for the English nation 

Swaird. sward 

Swall'd, swelled 

Swank, stately; jolly 

Swankie, or swanker. a tight, 
strappin young fellow or girl 

Swaj, an exchange ; to barter 

Swarf, to swoon ; a swoon 



Swat, did sweat 

Swatch, a sample 

Swats, drink; good ale 

Sweaten, sweating 

Sweer. lazy: averse: dead- 
sweer, extremely averse 

Sweor, swore, did swear 

Swinge, to beat : to whip 

Swirl, a curve; an eddying 
blast, or pool ; a knot in wood 

Swirlie, knaggie, full of knots 

Swith, get away 

Swither, to hesitate in choice; 
an irresolute wavering in 
choice 

Syne, since ; ago; then 
T. 

Tackets, a kind of nails for dri- 
ving into the heels of shoes 

Tae, a toe ; three tae'd, having 
three prongs 

Tairge, a target 

Tak, to take: takin, taking 

Tamtallan, the name of a moun- 
tain 

Tangle, a sea-weed 

Tap, the top 

Tapetless, heedless; foolish 

Tarrow, to murmur at one's al- 
lowance 

Tarrow't, murmured 

Tarrv-brecks. a sailor 

Tauld, or Tald, told 

Taupie, a foolish, thoughtless 
young person 

Tauted, or Tautie, matted to- 
gether; spoken of hair or 
wool 

Tawie, that allows itself peace- 
ably to be handled; spoken 
of a horse, cow, <fcc. 

Teat, a small quantity 

Teen, to provoke ; provocation 

Tedding, spreading after the 
mower 

Ten-hours' bite, a slight feed to 
the horses while in the yoke, 
in the forenoon 

Tent, a field-pulpit ; heed; cau- 
tion; to take heed; to tend 
er herd cattle 

Tentie, heedful ; cautious 

Tentless, heedless 

Tengh. 'tough 

Thack, thatch; thack air rape, 
clothing necessaries 

Thae, these 

Thairms. small guts; fiddle- 
strings 

Thankit, thanked 

Theekit, thatched 

Thegither, together 

Themsel. themselves 

Thick, intimate ; familiar 

Thieveless, cold ; dry ; spited ; 
spoken of a person's de- 
meanour 

Thir, these 

Thirl, thrill 

Thirled, thrilled; vibrated 

Thole, to suffer; to endure 

Thowe, a thaw; to thaw 

Thowless. slack: lazy 

Timing, throng: a crowd 

Thrapple. throat; windpipe 

Thrave. twenty-four sheaves or 
two shocks of corn ; a con- 
siderable number 

Thraw. to sprain ; to twist ; to 
contradict 

Thrawin. twisting. &c. 

Thrawm, sprained ; twisted : 
contradicted 



GLOSSARY. . 
Threap, to maintain by dint of 

Threshim thrashing 

Threteen, thirteen 

Thristle, thistle 

Through, to goeii with; tomake 
out 

Throuther, pell-mell ; confus- 
edly 

Thud, to make a loud, intermit- 
tent noise 

Thumpit, thumped 

Thvsel, thyself 

Tili't, to it 

Tirumer, timber 

Tine, to loose ; tint, lost 

Tinkler, a tinker 

Tint the gate, lost the way 

Tip, a ram 

Tippence, twopence. 

Tirl, to make a slight noise; to 
uncover 

Tirlin, uncovering 

Tither, the other 

Tittle, to whisper 

Tittlin, whispering 

Tocher, marriage portion 

Tod. a fox 

'fuddle, to totter; like the walk 
of a child 

Toddlin, tottering 

Toom, empty ; to empty 

Toop, a ram 

Toun, a hamlet ; a farm-house 

Tout, the blast of a horn or 
trumpet ; to blow a horn, &c 

Tow. a rope 

Towmond, a twelvemonth 

Towzie, rough and shaggy 

Toy, a very old fashion of female 
head-dress 

Tovte, to totter like old age 

Transmugrified. transmigrated, 
matamorphosed 

Trashtrie, trash 

Trews, trousers 

Trickie, full of tricks 

Trig, spruce: neat 

Trimly, excellently 

Trow." to believe 

Trowth, truth : a petty oath 

Tryste. an appi>imi;iuit : a fair 

Trysted, appointed : to tryste ; 
to make an appointment" 

Trv't, tried 

Tug. raw hide, of which in old 
times plough-traces were fre- 
quently made 

Tulzie. a quarrel; to quarrel: 
to fight 

Twa. two 

Twa-three, a few 

TwacJ, it would 

'Twal, twelve : twal-pennie- 
worth, a small quantity, a 
pennie - worth. X. r». One 
penny English is 12d. Scotch 

Tv>-in. to part 

Tyke, a clog 

U. 

Unco, Strang; uncouth; very, 
very great, prodigious 

Uncos, hews 

I'm kenn'd, unknown 

Insicker, unsure; unsteady 

Unskaitli'd. undamaged; -un- 
hurt 

Unweeting, unwittingly ; un- 
knowingly 

Upo', upon 

L'rcltin... a hedgehog 



Vap'rin, vapouring 

Yera. very 

Virl, a ring round a column. &c. 

Yittle, corn of all kinds ; food 



W. 

Wa', wall; wa's; walls 

Wabster, a weaver 

Wad. would ; to bet ; a pledge 

Wadiia, would not 

Wae, wo ; sorrowful 

Waefu', wof til ; sorrowful ; 

wailing 
Waesucks! or waes me! alas I 

the pity 
Waft, the cross thread that 

goes from the shuttlethrough 

the web ; woof 
Wair, to lay out ; to expend 
Wale, choice; to choose 
Waled, chose; chosen 
Walie, ample; large; jolly; 

also an interjection of distress 
Wame, the belly 
Wamefif , a beliy full 
Wanchancie. unlucky 
Wanrestfu'. restless 
Y'ark, work. 
Wark-lume, a tool to work 

with 
Warl, orwarld: world 
Warlock, a wizard 
Warly, worldly; eager on 

amassing wealth 
Warran, a warrant; to war- 
rant 
Warst. worst 

WarstFd or warsl'd; wrestled 
Wa-trie. prodigality 
Wat, wet; I wat ; I wot; I 

know 
Water-brose, brose made of 

meal and '.water simply; 

without the addition of milk, 

butter, <fcc. 
Wattle, a twig ; a wand 
Wauble, to swing: to reel 
Waught, a draught 
Waukit, thickened as fullers do 

cloth 
Waukrife, not apt to sleep 
Waur, worse ; to worst 
Waur't. worsted 
Wean, or weanie ; a child 
Wearie, or weary; many a 

weary body ; many a dif- 
ferent person 
Y>*eason, weasand 
Y'eaving th>' st-ckiug. See 

Stocking p. 583. 
Wee, little 

Wee things, little ones 
Wee bit, a small matter 
Weel, well 
Weelfare, welfare 
Weef . rain ; wetness 
Y\'eird, fate 
•We'se, we shall 
Wh-a, who 
'.Viiaizle, to wheeze 
Whalpit, whelped 
'Whang, a leathern string: a 

piece of cheese, bread, &c, 

to give the strappado 
Whare, where 
Whare'er. wmerever 
Wheep, to fly nimbly ; jerk; 

penny-wheep; smairbeer 



the motion of a hare, 
liny but not frighted: a lie 
tin, running as a hare or 



.Villi 



fan- 



BURNS' POETICAL WORKS. 

Wimpl't, meandered 

Wimplin, waving ; meandering 
Win, to win: to winnow 
Win't, winded as a bottom of 



cies ; crotchets 

Whingin, crying; complaining 
fretting 

Wliirligignms, useless orna- 
ments ; trilling appendages 

Whissle, a whistle; to whistle 

Whisht, silence: to hold one's 
whist ; to be silent 

Whisk, to sweep; to lash 

Whiskit, lashed 

Whitter, a hearty draught of 
liquor 

Whun-stane, a whin-stone 

Whvles, whiles ; sometimes 

Wi\ with 

Wicht, 



Wick, to strike a stone in an 
oblique direction ; a term 
in curling 

Wicher, willow (the smaller 
port) 

Wlel, a small whirlpool 

A\" i i) c a diminutive or endear? 



Wilyai 



,' term foi 



irife 

ishful and reserved : 
society or appearing 



awkward 

strange; timid 
Wimple, to meander 



Win 



,vind 



Win's, winds 
Winna, will not 
Win nock, a widow 
Winsome, hearty; vauntcc 
Wintle, a staggering motion 

to stagger ; to reel 
Winze, an oath 



ish 



»-ith< 



Withouttei! 

Wizend, hide-bound; dried; 
shrunk 

Wonner, a wonder: a contemp- 
tuous appellation 

Wons, dwells 

Woo', wool 

Woodie, a rope, more propcrly 
one made of withes or willows 

Wooer-bab. the garter knotted 
below the knee with a couple 
of loops 

Wordy, worthy 

Worset, worsted 

Wow, an exclamation of plea- 
sure or wonder 

Wrack, to tea/.e: to vex 

Wraith, a spirit or ghosf : an 
apparition exactly like a 
1 ving person, whose appear- 
ance is -aid to forborte the 
aching death 



Wrang. wrong; to wrong 
Wreeth. a drifted heap of snow 
Wild, mad; distracted 
Wumble, a wimble 
Wvle, to beguile 
Wyliecoat, a flannel vest 
Wyte, blame; to blame 

Y. 

Yad, an old mare; a worn-out 

horse 
Ye, this pronoun is frequently 

used for thou 
Yearns, longs much 
Yearlings, born in the same 

year; coevals 
Year is used both for singular 

and plural years 
Yearn, earn; an eagle; an 

ospray 
Yell, barren : that gives no milk 
York, to lash; to jerk 
Yerkit, jerked: lashed 
Yestreen, yesternight 
Y'ett, a gate, such as is usually 

at the entrance into a farm- 
yard or field 
Yill. alert 
Yird, earth 
Yokin : yokin; about 
Yonl. beyond 
Yoiir-el. 'yourself 
Yowe, an ewe 
Yowie, diminutive of yowe 
Yule, Christmas 



CONTENTS. 



Address 

Life of Burns ....... 

The Twa Dogs 

Scotch Drink 

The Author's Earnest Cry and Prayer 

to the Scotch .Representatives in the 

House of Commons 

Postscript 

The Holy Fair 

Death and Doctor Hornbook 

The Brigs of Ayr 

The Ordination 

The Calf 

Address to the Deil 

The Death and Dying Words of Poor 

Mai!ie, the Author's only Pet Yowe . 

Poor Mailie's Elegy 

To James Smith 

A Dream 

The Vision 

Address to the Unco Guid or the Rigidly 

Righteous 

Tarn Samson's Elegy 

The Epitaph 

Halloween 

The Auld Farmer's New-Year Morning 

Salutation to his Auld Mare Maggie 

To a Mouse 

A Winter Night 

Epistle to Davie 



The Lai 



ent 



Despondency 

Winter 

The Cotter's Saturday Night 

Man was Made to Mom .... 

A Prayer 

Stanzas on the same Occasion . 

Verses 

The First Psalm 

A Prayer 

The first six verses of the Ninetieth Psalm . 

To a Mountain Daisy 

To Ruin 

To Miss Logan 

Epistle to a Young Friend . • 

On a Scotch Bard .... 
To a Haggis .... 

A Dedication . 

To a Louse ... ... 

Address to Edinburgh 

Epistle to J. Lapraik 

To the Same . . . . . . 

To William Simpson 

Postscript ....... 

Epistle to J. Rankine 

John Barleycorn .... 

A Fragment 

Song ■ . . ."-■", 

Green grow the Rashes . 

Song . 

Song 

Song 

Song . 

Song . 

The Farewell ...... 

Song , 



Written in Friars-carse Hermitage 

Ode 

Elegy on Captain Matthew Hendorsoi: 

Lament on Mary Queen of Scots . 

To Robert Graham. Esq 

Lament for James, Earl of Glencairn 

Lines 

Tain o' Shanter .... 

On Seeing a Wounded Hare Limp by Me . 

Address to the Shade of Thomson 

Epitaphs: On a Celebrated Ruling Elder 
On a Noisy Polemic 
„ On Wee Johnny 
,, For the Author's Father 
,, For R. Aiken, Esq. 
., For Gavin Hamilton, Esq. 
'„ A Bard's Epitaph. 

On the Late Captain Grose 
I To Miss Cruikshanks 
. Song 

The"Death of Join: M'Leod. Esq 
; Humble Petition of Bruar-Watcr 
! On. s carina- some Water-fowl 
, Written with a Pencil 
i Written with a Pencil . . 
i On the Birth of a Posthumous Child 

i The Whistle 

! .Second Epistle to Davie 

: Happy Friendship .... 

I dream'd I lay 

Song 

On the Death of Sir James Hunter Blair . 

Written on a Blank Leaf 

The Kirk's Alarm .... 

The Twa Herds 

The Henpeck'd Husband 

Elegy on the year 1788 

Verses 

Lines Written bv Burns 

The Birksof Aberfcldy 

Stav. mv Charmer, can you leave Me 

Strathailan's Lament 

The vonng Highland Rover 

Ravi'u.- Wind-- around her Blowing . 

31 using on the Roaring Ocean 

IUvthe was She 

A Rose-bud bv my Earlv Walk 

Where Braving Anarv Winter's St on: 

Tibbie 1 hae seen the Day 

Clarinda 

The Day Returns, my Bosom Burns 

The Lazy Mist 

O. were 1 on Parnassus' Hill 

1 Love my Jean 

The Braes o' Ballochmyle 

Willie Brew'd a Peck o' Maut , 

The Blue-eved Lassie 

The Banks of Nith , 

John Anderson, my jo. 

The Jolly Beggars 

am Glen 

Mv Tocher's the Jewel .... 

Then Guidwife Count the Lawin 

What can a Young Lassie do wi' an Auld 
Man 

The Bonnie wee Thing 



O. fur ane and twenty, Tam ! 

Bess and her Spinnin-wheel 

Country Lassie • 

Fair Eliza 

ThePosic 

The Banks o' Boon. 

Sic a Wife as Willie Had 

Gloomy December 

Evan Banks 

Wilt thou be my Dearie ? . . 

She's Fair andFause . t . . 

Afton Water 

Bonnie Bell 

The Gallant Weaver 

Loajs, what reck I by Thee? 

For the Sake of Somebody 

The Lovely Lass bf Inverness 

A -Mother's Lament for the Death of her 
Son 

O May. tliv Morn .... 

(> what ve wIki's in yon Town 

A Led. Bed Lose . . . . . 

A Vision 

Copy of a Poetical Address to Mr. William 
Tytler . 

Caledonia 

Poem 

Poem 

On the Battle of Sheriff-umir . 

Sketch on New Year's Dav 

On the late Mr. William Sincllie 

Poetical Inscription, for an Altar to Inde- 
pendence 

Sonnet en the Death of Mr. Riddel . 

Monody on a Lady Famed for her Caprice . 

The Epitaph 

Answer tc a Mandate .... 

Seng 

Impromptu on Mrs. Riddel's Birthday 
Address to a Lady .... 

To a Young Lady 

Sonnet 

Extempore, to Mr. Symc 

To Mr. Svnie 

The Dumfries Volunteers 

Poem ... ... 

Postscript 

Sent to a Gentleman whom he had Of- 
fended ... ... 

Poem on Life 

Address to the Tooth-ache .... 

*>ng 

Song 

Song 

Written in a Wrapper 

To Robert Graham. Esq. of Fintry . 

Epitaph on a Friend 

A Grace Before Meat 

Mrs lMinlop, of Dunlop .... 

AVer-' .' 

31 v Wife's a Winsome wee Thing 

Highland Mary 

Auld Rob Morris 

Duncan Gray 

Song .... .... 

(Jala Water 

Lord Gregory 

Mary Morison .... 

Wandering Willie 

Open the Door to Me, oh ! . . 

Jessie 

When Wild War's Deadly Blast war, Blawn 

M-.-gcT the Mill 

Whistle and I'll Come to you, my Lad 

Dainty Davie 

Fragment ....... 

Auld Lang Syne 

Bannockburn 

On the Seas and far Away 

Ca' the Yowes to the Knowes . 

She savs she Lo'es me best of a' = 

Saw ve mv Philly 



How Lang and Drearly is the Night . 

Let not Woman e'er Coix plain . 

The Lover's .Morning Salute to his Mistress 

The Auld Man 

My Chloris 

Song 

Lassie wi' the Lint-white Locks . 

Duet 

Contented w' little 

Canst thou Leave me Thus, my Katy ? . 

Mv Nannie's awa' 

For a' That, and a' That .... 

Craigie-burn Wood 

•Song 

Address to the Woodlark .... 

On Chloris being 111 

Caledonia 




Son;,' 

How Cruel arc the. Parents . 

Song 

Song 

Scottish Song .... 
Scottish Song . . . . 

Song 

Kni'li-h Song .... 

Scottish Ballad 

Fragment 

Hey for a La^s wi' a Tocher 

Jessy 

Song .... 

Song . . .' . . 

Bonnie Jean .... 
The Five Carlines . 
T'-;e Election .... 
An Excellent New Song 
.John Bushbv's Lamentation 
The Highland Widow's Lament 



Elegy 



Epistle to John Goudie . 

ID.lv Willlie's l'raver . 

Epitaph on Holv Willie .... 

Third Epistle to John Lanraik 

Epistle to the Lev. .JohnMMath 

A .Note to Gavin Hamilton. Esq 

Willie Chalmers 

Lines Written on a Bank Note 

Toa Kiss 

Verses Written Under Violent Grief 

To Mr. M Adam 

Lines on Meeting with Basil, Lord Daer . 
Epistle to Major Logan .... 

Lament ... . 

The Farewell .... 



Prologue 

Epistle to William Creech . . . . 

The Hermit 

■.. Death of Lord President Dun- 



A Sketch ... ... 

An Extempore EiTir-ion . . . . 

To Clarinda .... 

Epistle to Hngh Parker 

Extempore t* Captain Riddel 

Mv Aiii Kind Dearie, 0! . . . . 

To Mary 

Letter to James Tcnnant 
Delia . ... 

PegNicolson 

To my Bed 

Second Epistle to Mr. Graham 

Address of Beelzebub .... 

Libertv— A Fragment 

To Mr.' Maxwell ... . . 

The Tree of Liberty . 

On General Dumoiirier .... 

Epistle From iEsopus to Maria 

The Vowels ... ... 

Verses to John Kankine . 

On the Death of a Favourite Child . 

The Ruined Maid's Lament 

The Dean of the Faculty . 



Verses 

On the Duke of Queensborry 

Verses to John M'Mnrdo, Esq. 

On Mr. M'Mnrdo .... 

Impromptu on Willie Stewart 

Montgomery's Peggy 

Bonnie Peggy Alison 

Here's to thy Health, my .Bonnie 

Young Peggy .... 

The Ploughman . . . 

Yon Wild Mossy Mountains 

On Cessnock Banks 

Powers Celestial 

I'm Owre Young to Marry Yet . 

M'Pherson's Farewell 

Here's a Health to Them that s Aw 

The Blue-Red Pose at Yule May Bl; 

When Jannar' Wind 

Bonnie Ann . 

Blooming Nelly 

My Heart's in t!.:e Highlands 

To Mary in Heaven 

Young Jockey .... 

I do Confess thou art sae Fair 

Hunting Song .... 

Kenmure's On and Awa' 

Such a Parcel of Rogues in a Nation 

The Exciseman .... 

I'll Aye Ca' in by Yon Town . 

Could aught of Song 

On, Steer her Up 

It Was a' for our Rightfu' King 

Oh, lav thy roof in Mine, Lass 

Oh Mally's Meek, Mally's Sweet 

Cassillis' Banks 

My Lady's Gown, there's Gairs upon' 

The Fete Cliameptre . " 

How can I be Blvthe and Glad? 

Lovely Polly Stewart 

Handsome Nell .... 

My Father was a Farmer 

Up in the Morning Early 

Hey, the Dusty Miller 

Robin 

Her Flowing Locks 

The Sons of Old Killie 

The Joyful Widower 

O, whare did you get 

There was a Lass 

Landlady, Count the Lawin' I 

Rattlin' Roarin' Willie 

Simmer's a Pleasant Time 

My love she's but a Lassie yet 

The Captain's Lady 

First when Maggy was my Care 

There's a Youth in this City 

Oh aye my Wife she dang me 

Eppie Adair 

Whare hae ye Been? 



The Tither Morn 

Come Boat me o'er to Charlie 

It is na, Jean, thy Bonnie Face 

Niihsdale's Welcome Home 

My Collier Laddie . 

As I was a-wandering 

Ye JacoVitesby Name 

Lady Mary Ann .... 

Out over the Forth . 

The Carles O'Dysart . 

Lady Onlie . 

Young Jamie, pride of a' the Plain 

Jenny's a Wat. "poor body 

The Cardin O't . . " . 

To thee, Lov'd Nith 

Sae far Away .... 

Wae is my Heart 

Amang the Trees .... 

The Highland Laddie 

Bannocks o' Barlev . , -. 

Robin Shure in Hairst 



Sweetest May .... 

The Lass of Ecclefechan 

Here's a Bottle and an Honest Frie 

On a Ploughman .... 

The Weary Fund o' Tow 

The Laddies by the Banks o' Nith 

On Captain Francis Grose . 

On a Henpecked Country Squire 

Another on his Widow 

On Elphinstone's Translation of Mi 



On Miss J. Seott of Ayr 

On an Illiterate Gentleman . 

Written under a Picture 

Written on a Pane of Glass ."' . 

Fragment 

On Incivility Shown him at Inverar 
Lines Written and Presented to 

Kemble . . . . 

Lines 

The Solemn League and Covenant 

On a Certain Parson's Looks 

On seeing the Beautiful Seat of 

Galloway 

On the Same 

On the Same .... 

To the Same 

On an Empty Fellow 
Lines Written on a Pane of Glass 
The True Loyal Natives 
Inscription on a Goblet . 
The Creed of Poverty . 

Lines . . 

Epistle to John Taylor 

To Miss Fontenelle 

Excisemen Universal . 

On Jessy Lewars .... 

Toast teethe Same 

Epitaph on the Same 

To the Same 

Graces Before Meat 

On a Henpeck'd Country Squire 

On John Dove 

On Wat 

On a Schoolmaster .... 

On Mr. W. CruikshanLs 

For William Nicol .... 

On W 

On the Same 

On Gabriel Richardson 

On John Bnshby .... 

On the Poet's Daughter 

On a Picture 

The Lass o' Ballochmyle 
On a Y T oung Lady "... 
Castle-Gordon .... 

Farewell to Ayrshire 

Fragment 

Bruce to his Troops 

Remorse 

Prologue 

Extempore in the Court of Session 
Tragic Fragment .... 
Robert Burns' Answer 
The Poet's W r eleorne to his Elegit 

Child ..... 

Verses ...... 

To a Medical Gentleman 

Lines ...... 

Lines on Stirling 

The Reproof 

Reply to a Gentleman 

Reply to a Clergyman 

The Book Worms 

Verses addressed to J. Rankine, 

On Robert Riddel. Esq. . 

On a Person nicknamed Marquis 

On Sir David Maxwell 

On a Suicide 

Oh, saw ye my Dearie ? 

Merry hae I been teeth in" a Hcckl 

Our Thrissles Fluumh'd 



Oh. gude ale Comes 
Jamie, C ome try me 
There's News. Lasses. Xcws 
Cauld is the Benin' Blast 
There was a Bonnie Lass 
Sweet Closes the Evening 
My Heart was Alice 

The Tailor 

My Jean ! 

My Harry was a Gallant Gav 
The Gowden Locks or Anna" 
Weary fa' vou, Duncan Gray 
Mvflosr-ic .... 

Ae Fond Kiss 

Had I the Wyte! .... 

The Bairns gal out 

Cock up your Beaver 

Wha is that at my Bower Boor? 

The Rantin' Bog the Daddie o't 

A Fragment 

Oh, leave Novels ! 

The Guidwife of Wauchope House 

To the Guidwife o' Wauchope House 

Lines Written on a Copy of Thomson' 

Son<, r s 

Hur Daddie forbade 

Here's his Health in Water 

The Carle of Kcllybiun Braes . 

When Rosy May 

HeeBalou! 

Bonnie Peg 

Wee Willie Gray .... 

on Tam the Chapman 

ToClarlnda 

Braw Lads of Gal i Wat r 
< lomc rede me. Dame 

The Diserect Hint . 
To Mr. John Kennedy 



Lucku 



TtU 



Tibhie Dunhi 

oh. whv the deuce shuiild 1 repine? 

To! he Owl 

When First 1 came to Stewart Kyle 
The Banks o' Doon 
Ye hae lien a' wrang. Lassie 
On an Evening view of the Ruins of Li 
cJuden Abbey 

Ah. Cliloris! 

Damon and Sylvia 

As down the Burn 

Epitaph on Mr. Burton 

Oh. Leeze me on my wee thing 

When I think on the Happy Days 

Shelah o-.\eil .... 

Bonnie Lesley 

Song 

Logan Water .... 
Phillis the Fair .... 
Had I a Cave .... 

Song 

A down winding Nith I did Wandc 



My Spouse. Nancy .... 

Nancy 

The Banks of Crce 

On Andrew Turner . . , 

Address 

The Rights of Woman .... 

Prologue 

Elegy on Miss Burnet, of Monboddo 
To Robert Graham. Esq., of Fin try 

To Dr. Blacklock 

Thou hast left me ever, Jamie 

By yon castle ivn', <fcc. 

The Chevalier's Lament 

Bonnie Mary .... 

1 hae a Wife o' my Ain . 

Lovely Davies .... 

The Cooper o' Caddie 

Sketch 

Son-.' of Death .... 

Fragment 

Woman's Minds .... 

On a lap-dog named Echo 
On a Wag inMauchline . 

To Dr. Maxwell 

Inscription to the Memory of Ferguss 

Song 

Epigram 

Verses 

The Braw Bridal .... 
Lines Written at Loudon Mjuisc 
Katharine Jaff ray .... 
There's naething like the Honest Nappy . 
Mv Minnie . 

The Epitaph 

Grace before Meat 
My Bottle . 



olton Lai 



The 'l 

Extempore 

• In vain would Prudence ' 

The slave's Lament 

Gudeen to yon, Kiiumcr 

Impromptu 

In 



apl 



A Fa 

• I Burn, I Burn' 

that I had ne'er been Married 

were in y love yon lilac fair 

Extempore 

The Toad -Eater 

The Winter it is Bast, etc . 



132 



Coi:i:i:si'ONi)KXfE OF BcitNS . 

Btl.'N.s' CoKKKsl-oNCDENX-E WITH Ml:. G.''."l:oT. 

Thomson 179 to 197 

Al'I'F.NDIX ISO to 2(M1 

Xr.Trs 201 to 209 

Glossakt . . . . 210 to 216 



The Birth-place of Burns . 
Allowav Kirk. 
Mossgiel, the Farm of Gil- 
bert and Robert Burns . 
The Brie o' Boon . 
Burns' Farm at Ellisland . 



ILLUSTRATIONS. 

Facing page iv Highland Mary's Tomb Facing pag< 
viii Lincluden Abbey ... 
The Banks of the Doon 
,, rdii Burns' Monument and Grotto 

., xvi on the Doon ... „ 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



A cauld, canld kirk, and in't but few . 
Accept the gift a friend sincere 
Adieu! a heart-warm, fond adieu ! 
Admiring Nature in her wildest grace . 
Adown winding Nith I did wander 
Ae fond kiss, and then we sever! . 
Again rejoicing nature sees 
Again the silent wheels of time 
A guid New- Year I wish thee, Maggie! 
Ah, Chloris, since it may na be 
A little, upright, pert, tart, tripping wight 
All devil as 1 am, a damned wretch 
All hail! inexorable lord! 
Altbo' my back be at the wa' 
Altho' my bed were in yon muir . 
Altiio" thou maun never be mine . 
Aiming the trees where humming bees 
Among the heathy hills and ragged woods 
Ance mair I hail thee, thou gloomy Decem- 
ber! 

An honest man here lies at rest 
Anna, thy charms my bosom fire . 

An' O! my Eppie 

A rose-bud by my early walk 

As down the burn they took their way 

As father Adam first was fool'd . 

As I came in by our gate end . 

As 1 stood by yon roofless tower . 

As I was a wand'ring ae midsummer e'enifi 

As I was a wand'ring ane morning in sprin; 

Ask whv God made the gem so small . 

As Maille, an" her lambs thegither 

As on the banks o wandering Nith 

As Tarn the Chapman on a dav 

A' the lads o' Thornie-bank ". 

At Brownhill we always get daintv good 

cheer 

Auld chuckie Beekie's sair distrest 
Auld comrade dear and blither sinner 
Awa wi' your witchcraft o* beauty's alarms 
A' ye wha live by sowps o' drink . 

Bannocks o' bear meal .... 
Beauteous rose-bud, young and gav 
Before I saw Clarinda's face . " 
Behind yon hill where Stineher flows 
Behold the hour, the boat arrive ! . 
Below these stanes lie Jamie's banes . 
Bless the Bed eiuer. Cardo.ness . 
Blest be MMurdo to his latest dav 
Blithe hae I been on yon hill . 
Bonie wee thing, cannie wee thing 
Braw, braw lads of Gala Water . 
Bright ran thy line, Galloway . 
But lately seen in gladsome green 
But rarely seen since Nature's birth . 
By Allan stream I chane'd to rove 
By Ochtertvre grows the aik . 
By yon castle wa'. at the clo-:e of the da 



Can I cease to care ..... 
Cauld blaws the wind frae east to west 
Cauld is the e'enin" blast .... 
Cease, ye prudes, your envious railing 
Clarinda, mistress of my soul . 
Come boat me o'er, come row me o'er . 
Come. let. me take thee to my breast . 
Come rede me, dame, come tell me. dame 
Co.-ning through the rye, poor body 
Contented wi' little, and cantic wi' mair 
Could aught of song declare my pains . 
Curs'd be the man, the poorest wretch in 

life ......... 

Curse on ungrateful man, that can be 

pleas'd 

Dear Smith, the sleeest. paukie thief . 

Dear , I'll gie ye some advice . 

Deluded swain, the pleasure - 
Dire was the hate at old Harlaw . 
Does haughty Gaul invasion threat ? . 
Duncan Gray came here to woo 
Dweller in yon dungeon dark 

Earth'd up here lies an imp o 1 hell 
Edina! Scotia's darling seat! . 
Expect na, Sir, in this narration . 

Fair Empress of the Poet's soul . 
Fair fa' your honest, sonsie face . 
Fair tin' race of orient day 
False flatterer, Hope away ! . 
Farcwcei to a' our Scottish fame . 
Farewell, dear Friend! may guid luck hit 

you 

Farewell, old Scotia's bleak domains . 
Farewell, thou fair day, thou green earth. 

and ye skies . . " . 
Farewell, thou stream that winding flows 
Farewell, ye dungeons dark and strong 
Fate gave'the word, the arrow sped 
Fill me with the rosy wine 
Fintray, my stay in worldly strife 
First when Maggy was my care . 
Flow gently, sweet Afton, among thy green 

braes 

For Lords or Kings I dinna mourn 
Forlorn, my love, no comforr near 
Frae the friends and land I love . 
Friday first's the day appointed 
Friend of the Poet, fried and leal . 
From thee, Eliza, I must go . . . 
From those drear solitudes and frowzy cells 
Full well thou know'st I love thee dear 

Gane is the day, and mirk's the night . 

Go fetch to me" a pint o : wine . . 

Grant me, indulgent Heav'n, that I may 



i>;l-i;x to first lixls. 



Gttdeen to you, Kimmer 131 

Guid-mornin to your Majesty! ... 14 

Guid speed an' furder to you, Johny . . 82 

Had I a cave on some v.-ild, distant shore . 123 

Had I the wyte, had 1 the wyte . . . 110 

Hail, Poesie ! thou Nynq.h ryserv'd ! . . (52 

Hail, thairm-inspirin", rattlin', Willie ! . S4 

Hark! the mavis' evening sam,' ... 71 

Has auld Kilmarnock seen the Deil '? . 17 

Ha! whare ye gaun, vc crawlin ferlic ! . 31 

Health to the Maxwell*" vefran Chief! . 90 

Hear, Land o' Cakes, and brither Scots . 44 
He clenched his pamphlets in his fist . .112 

Hee balou! my sweet wee Donald . . Ill) 

Heard ve o' tlie tree o' France ... 01 

Her daddie forbad, her minnie forbad . . 118 

Her Sowing locks, the raven's wing . . 101 

Here around the ingle bleeding ... 48 

Here awa, there av.a, wandering Willie . CO 

Here Brewer Gabriels fires extinct . . llo 

Here cursing swearing Lurtun lies . . 122 

Here's Holy Willie's sair-worn clay . . 82 

Here is the glen, and here the bower . . 121 

Here lie Willie Michie's bancs . . 109 
Here lies a mock Marquis whose titles were 

shamm'd 114 

Here lies a rose, a budding rose . . .no 

Here lies John llushbv. honest man . . no 

Here lies .Johnny Pi-eon .... loo 

Here lies now a prey Lo insulting neglect . 04 

Her,' souter Hood in Death Joes sleep . -11 

Here Stu.uts oiue in eloiv rei-n'd . . 113 
Here, where the Scottish Muse immortal 

lives 118 

Here's a bottle and an honest friend! . 107 

Here's a health to them that's av.a . 96 

Here's to thy health, my bonnie lass . . 04 

He who of Kankine sang, lies still and dead 51 

llev. (he dustv miller lo] 

Honest Will's to heaven is ganc . . . no 

How can my poor heart be glad ... 71 
How cold is that bosom which folly once 

fired C4 

How cruel are the parents .... 75 

How daur \e ca' me howlet-faccd . . . 131 

How lang and dreary is the nighl ... 72 
How pleasant the banks of the clear-winding 

Devon 110 

How shall 1 sing Drmnlanrig\s Grace . u:, 

How Wisdom and Folly meet, mix, and uuitc 12S 

Humid seal ot sott affections . . . 84 

Husband, husband, cease your strife . . 124 

lam a keeper of the law 113 

I am my niannnie's ae bairn , . . . 95 

I burn. 1 burn, as when thru' ripen'd corn . 132 

I call no Goddess to inspire uiy strains . . <;; 

I coft a staue 0' haslock woo' .... 106 

I do confess thou art sae fair .... 97 
I dream d 1 lay where, flowers were spring- 



ng 



If you gae up to yon lull-tap . 

If you rattle along like your mistress's 
tongue 

1 gaed a waefu' eate yestreen. 

1 gaed up to Duiisc 

I gat your letter, winsome Willie . 

I hae a wife o' hit am 

I hold it. Sir. my bounden duty 

I lang hae thought, my youthfu' friend 

Ilk care and fear when thou art near . 

I'll ay ca' in by yon town 

I married with a scolding wife 

1 mind it weel in early date .... 

I murder lv.te by field or flood 

I'm three times doubly o'er your debtor 

In coming by the brig o' Dye . . . . 

Inhuman man ! curse on tliv barb'rous art . 

In Mauchline there dwells six proper voting 
Belles /•'*. 

In politics if thou wouklst mix 



In simmer when the hay was mown . 
Instead of a Song, boys, I'll give you a toast 
In se'enteen hundred forty-nine . 
In this strange land, this uncouth clime 
In vain would Prudence, with decorous 

sneer 

In wood and wild, ye warbling throng . 

I see a form, 1 sec a face 

I sing of a Whistle, a Whistle of worth. 

Is there a whim-inspired fool . 

Is there for honest poverty .... 

Is this thy plighted, fond regard . 

It is na. Jean, thy bonie face .... 

It was a" for our rightfu' King 

It was in sweet Senegal that my foes did 

me enthral 

It was the charming month of May 

It was upon a Lammas night .... 

Jockey's ta'en the parting kiss 

John Anderson my jo, John .... 
Jemie, come try nic 

Kemblc, thou cur'st my unbelief . 
Ken ye ought o' Captain G rose ': . 
Kilmarnock W' abaters, fidge and chiw . 
Kind Sir. I've read vour paper th' 
Know thou, O stranger to the fame . 

Lament him. Mauehlino husbands a 
Lament in rhyme, lament in prose 
Landlady, count the lawin .... 
Lass, when your mither is frae home . 
Last .May a braw wooer cam down the lang 

glen 

Late crippl'd of an arm, and now a I 

Let not woman e'er complain 

Let other Poets raise a Fracas 

Life ne'er exulted in so rich a prize 

Like i; ,,j>'s lion, llurns says, sort.- I feel 

Lone "ii the l.leaky hills tlie st ravin*,' docks 

Long life, my Lord, an' health be yours 

Loud blaw the frosty breezes 

Louis, what reck 1 by thee .... 



Mark yonder pomp of costly fashion 
Maxwell, if merit here you crave . 
Musing on the roaring ocean 
My blessings on ye, sonsic wife 

Mv bottle is niv holv pool 

My canty, witty, rhyming ploughman 
My Chloris, mark how green the grov 
My curse upon thy venom'd stang 

My Lather was a Parmer upon the C 

border O 

My Harry wis a gallant gay . 

My heart is a breaking, dear TitUe 

My heart is sair, I dare na tell 

My heart is wac, and unco wae 

My heart's in the Highlands, 1113- he 

not here 

My heart was ance as blythe and free 
My honour d Colonel, de'ep I feel . 
My lord, a hunting he is gane 
My Lord. 1 know your noble car ■ 

' lovM, my honour' d, much rest) 



es 
arrick 



end! 



My love she's hut a lassie yet 
My Peggy's face, my Peggy's form 

Mae gentle dames, tho' e'er sae fair 
Nae heathen name shall I prefix . 
No churchman am 1 for to rail ana to write 
~o more of your guests, be they titled or 

not 

o more of your titled acquaintances boast 
o more.' ye warblers of the wood— no more 
No sculpt nr'd marble here, nor pompon- lay 
!Xo son? nor dance I bring from ; 



city 



No Stewart art thou, Galloway 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



Now bank an' brae arc claith'd in green 
Now health forsakes that angel face . 
Now in her green mantle blythe Nature ar 

rays 

Now Kennedy, if foot or horse 
Now nature cleeds the flowery lea 
Now Nature ha ng> her mantle green . 
Now Kobin lies in his last lair 
Now rosy May comes in wi flowers . 
Now simmer blinks on flowery braes . 
Now spring has clad the groves in green 
Now westlin winds and slaught'ring guns 

O aye my Wife she dang me . 

O a* 1 ye pious godly flocks 

O borne was yon rosy brier 

O cam ve here the fight to shun . 

O, could 1 give thee India's wealth 

O Death, hadst thou but spared his life 

O Death! thou tyrant fell and bloody ■ 

O'er the mist-shrouded cliffs of the loin 

mountain straying 

Of a' the airts the wind can blaw . 

Of all the numerous ills that hurt our peaci 

Oh gat me, oh gat ye me .... 

Oh' glide ale comes and gudc ale goes . 

O Goudie! terror o' the Whigs 

O. had the malt thy strength of mind . 

Oh ! had each Scot of ancient times 

Oh ! I am come to the low conntrie 

Oh, meikle do true, fause love 

Oh, lav thv loof m mine, lass . 

On lovely 'Polly Stewart .... 

Oh, open the door some pity to show . 

O how can 1 fee blithe and glad 

O how shall 1, unskilfu', try . 

Oh. sweet be thy sleep in the land of fli 

O ken ye what Meg o' the Mill has gotten 
O Kenmnre's on and awa, Willie I . 

O Lady Mary Ann 

O Lassie, art thou sleeping yet ? 

Old Winter with his frosty beard . 

O leave novels, ye Mauchline belles 

O leeze me on my spinnin- -wheel . 

Oh ! leeze me oh my wee thing 

O Logan, sweetly didst thou glide 

O Lord, when hunger pinches sore 

O hive will venture in, where it daur in 

weel be seen ...... 

O Mally's meek. Mally's sweet 

O Mary, at thv window be 

O May. thv r/orn was ne'er sae SAveet 

O meikle thinks my hive o' my beauty 

Oh meikle do I rue, fause love 

O merry hae I been teethin' a heckle . 

mirk, mirk is this midnight hour 

O. my love*s like a red, red rose . 

On a'bank of flowers, in a summer clay 

On Cessnock banks uieir lives a lass . 

Once fondly lov'd, and still remember 

dear 

One day as Death, the grasome carl . 

One night as I did wander 

One Queen Artemisia, as old stories tell 

O, once 1 lov'd a bonie lass 

O 1'hilly, happy be that day . 

O poortith cauld, and restless love 

Oppress' d with grief, oppress'd with care 

O raging fortune's withering blast 

O rattlin'. roarin' Willie .... 

O rough, rude, ready-witted Rankine . 

Orthodox, Orthodox, wha believe in Jol 

Knox 

O sad and heavy should 1 part 

O saw ye bonie Lesley .... 

O saw ye my dear, my Philly 

O saw ye my dearie, my Eppie M'Nab? 

Ostay, sweet warblingVoodlark, stay. 

O steer her up, and iuuid her siaun 

O that 1 had ne'er been married . 

O Thou dread P.ow'r, who reigu'st above 



O Thou Great Being ! what Thou art . 
O thou pale Orb, that silent shines 
O Thou, the first, the greatest friend . 
O Thou unknown, Almighty Cause 
Thou, wha in the Heavens dost dwell 
Othou! whatever title suit thee . 
Thou, who kindly dost provide . 
O thou whom Poetry abhors . . ] 
O Tibbie, I hae seen the day .... 
Onr thrissles flourish'd fresh and fair . 
Out over the Forth I look to the north . . : 
O, what ye wha s in yon town 
O wat ye what my minnie did . . . : 
O, were 1 on Parnassus' hill '..... 
O were my love yon lilac fair . : 
O, wert thou in the cauld blast 
O wha is she that lo'es me .... 
O wha my babie-clouts will buy? . . : 
O, whar did ye get that hauver meal ban- 
nock? 

O wha will to Saint Stephen's house . 

O whistle, and I'll come to you, my lad 

O why the deuce should I repine . 

O, Willie brew'd a peck o' maut 

O wilt thou go wi' me, sweet Tibbie Dunbar? : 

O ye who are sac good yourscl 

O ye, whose cheek the tear of pity stains . 

Peg Nicholson was a gr.de bay marc . 
Powers celestial, whose protection 

Rash mortal, and slanderous poet, thy 

name 

Raving winds around her blowing. 
Rest gently, turf, upon his breast . 
Revered defender of beauteous Stuart 
Right, Sir ! your text I'll prove it true 

Sad bird of night what sorrows call the forth 
Sad thy tale, thou idle page .... 
Sae flaxen were her ringlets .... 
Say, Sages, what's the charm on earth 
Scots, wha hae wi' Wallace hied . 
Searching auld wives barrels 
Scenes of woe and scenes of pleasure . 
Sensibility, how charming .... 
She is a winsome wee thing .... 
She's fair and fause that causes my smart . 
Should auld acquaintance be forgot . 71, 
Shrewd Willie Smellie to Crochallan came- ' 
Sic a reptile was Wat . 
Simmer's a. pleasant time .... 
Sing on, sweet Thrush, upon the leafless 

bough 

Sir, as your mandate did request . 
Sir, o'er a gill I gat vonr card 
Sieep'st thou, or wak'st thou, fairest crea- 
ture ......... 

Slow spreads the gloom my soul desires 

Some books are lies frae end to end 

Some hae meat, and canna eat, 

Spare me thy vengeance, Galloway 

Stay, my charmer, can you leave me ? 

Stop, Passenger, my story's brief . 

Stop thief! dame Nature cried to Death 

Sweet fa's the eve on Craigie-burn 

Still anxious to secure your partial favour . 

Streams that glide in orient plains 

Sweet closes 'the evening on Craigie-burn- 

wood 

Sweetest May, let love inspire thee 
Sweet flow'ret, pledge o' meikle love , 
Sweet naivete of feature .... 

Talk not to me of savages .... 
That there is falsehood in his looks 
The bairns gat out wi' an unco shout . 

The black-headed eagle 

The blude red rose at Yule may blaw . 
The boniest lad that e'er I saw 
The C'atrine woods were yellow seen . 
The cooper o' t'uddie cam here awa 



viil 



1STDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



PAGE 

The day returns, my bosom burns . . 52 ; 
The De'il cam fiddling thro' the town . .08 1 

The Devil got notice that Grose was a-dying 107 ! 

Thee, Caledonia, thy wild heaths among . 90 
The small birds rejoice in the green leaves 

returning 127 i 

The gloomy night is gath'rfhg fast . 33 
The graybeard, Old Wisdom, may boast of 

his treasures 113 

The heather was blooming, the meadows 

were mawn 97 

Their groves o' sweet myrtles let foreign 

lands reckon 75 

The King's most humble servant I . 132 
The laddies by the banks o' Nith . . .107 

The lamp of day, with ill-presaging glare . 48 

The last braw bridal that I was at . . 130 
The lazy mist hangs from the brow of the 

hill 53 

The lovely lass o' Inverness .... CO 

The man, in life wherever plac'd ... 27 

The night was still, and o'er the hill . . 130 

The noble Maxwells and their powers . . 104 
The ploughman lie's a bonie lad . . .94 

The poor man weeps— here Gavin sleeps . 44 

There liVd a lass in yonder dale . . . 130 

There lived a carle on Kellvburn braes . 118 
There's auld Rob Morris that wons in yon 

glen 68 

There's a youth in this citv, it were a great 

pity ........... 108 

There's braw braw lads on Yarrow braes . 09 

There's death in tin- cup— sac beware! . ]<i9 

There's naething like the honest nappy! . 130 

There's news, lasses, news . 114 

There's nought but care on ev'ry ban" . . 37 
There was a bonie las-;, and a bonie, bonie 



lass 

There was a lad was horn at Kyle 
There was a lass, and she was fair 
There was a lass, they ca'd. her Meg 

There, was once a day, but old Time then 

was young 

There were live Cirlms in the south . 
There were three Kings into the east . 
The simple Bard, rough at the rustic plough 
The smiling s|>ring comes in rejoicing . 
The Solemn League and Covenant 
The sun had clos'd the winter dav 
The Tailor fell thro' the bod. thimbles an' a' 
The Thames flows proudly to the sea . 

The tither in. -rn 

The wearv pund. the wearv pund . 
The wind'blew hollow frae 'the hills 

winter it is past ami the simmer comes 



'Twas in that place o' Scotland's isle . 
Tivas in the seventeen hunder year . 
Twas mi her bonie blue ee was "iny ruin 
'Twas where the birch and sounding thon 
are ply'd ........ 

Upon a simmer Sunday morn . 
Upon that night, when Fairies light 
Up wi' the carles of Dysart . 

Wae in my heart, and the tears in ray ec 
Wae worth thy power, thou cursed leaf 
Weary fa' you, Duncan Gray . 
We came na here to view your warks . 
Wee, modest, crimson-tipp'd fiow'r 
Wee sleekit. eow'rin, tim'rous bcastie . 
Wee Willie Gray, and his leather wallet 
Wha is that at my bower door? 
Whare hae ye been sac. braw, lad? 
What nils ye now, ye lousie bitch . 
What can a young lassie, what shall a youn 
lassie . 



t dost thou in that mansion fair . 
What needs this din about the town 

Lon'on 

What of earls with whom ye have supt 
What will 1 do gin my Hoggie die V 



buy my t 



g Hot- 


•as, fell and doure 




ms public's kind acclai 


mail 1 


illics leave the street. 


Novel 


iber's surly blast 


ti'sda 


k stream 1 ferrv o'er. 


, decc 


used, to the devil w 



at last 

The wintry west extends his blast. 
Thev snool me sair. and baud me down 
Thickest night, o'erhang my dwelling . 
Thine am 1. my faithful fair . 
Thine be the volumes. Jessie fair . 
This Day Time winds th' exhausted chain . 
This wot ye all whom it concerns . 
Tho' crue'l fate should bid us part . 
Thon bed. in which I first began . 
Thou flattering mark of friendship kind 
Thou hast left me ever, Jamie 
Thou lingering star, with less'ning ray 
Thou of an independent mind .... 
Thou's welcome, wean! mishanter fa' me . 
Thou whom chance may hither lead 
Thon. who thy honour as thy God rever'st . 
Tho' women's minds like winter winds 
Through and through the inspired leaves . 
'Tis Friendship's pledge, my young, fair 

friend . . 

To Riddel, much-lamented man 

To thee, lov'd Nith, thy gladsome plains 

True hearted was he, the sad swain o' the 

Yarrow 

Turn again, thou fair Eliza .... 
'Twas even— the dewy fields were green . 



When first I began for to sigh and to woo 
When first I came to Stewart Kvle 
When first I -aw fair Jeanie's face 
When lirst niv brave Johnnie lad . 
'* Win n Guilford good our Pilot stood . 
'- Winn 1 think on the happy days . 
When Janunr' wind was hlawing eauld 
When lvart leaves bestrew the yird . 
When Nature her great masterpiece 

sign'd . . 

When o'er the hill the eastern star 
When rosy .May comes In with flowers. 
When the'diums ,|o beat .... 
When wild war's deadly blast was blawn 
Where are the joys 1 have met in tin 

morning 

Where, braving angry winter's storms 
Where (art rins rowin to the sea . 
Where liv'd ye. my bonnie lass? . 

I While at the stook, the shearers cowr . 

1 While briers an' woodbines budding green 
While Europe's eye is fixed on might' 

things 

While larks with little wing . 

While new-ca'd kye rowte at the stake 

While virgin Spring, by Eden's flood . 

Whil.- winds frae alt Ren-Lomond blaw 

Whoe'er he be that sojourns here . 

Whoe'er thou art, O reader, know. 

Whoe'er thou art, these lines now reading 

Whom will you send to London town . 

Whose is that noble, dauntless brow ? . 

Why am 1 loth to leave this earthlv scene 

Why, why tell thy lover . . 

Why, ye tenants of the lake . 

Wi' braw new branks in miekle pride . 

Willie Wastle dwalt on Tweed 

Will ye go to the Indies, my Mary . 

Wilt thou be my dearie ? . 

With Pegasus upon a day. 

Wow, but your letter made me vauntie ! 

Ye banks, and braes, and streams around 
Ye banks and braes o' bonie Doon . 
Ye flowery banks o' bonie Doon . 
Ye gallants bright, I red yon right 



INDEX TO FIRST LINES. 



Ye holy walls that, still sublime . 
Ye hypocrites! are these your pranks . 
Ye Irish Lords, ye Knights an' Squires 
Ye Jacobites by name, give an ear, give ai 

ear . . . . . 
Ye maggots feast on N tool's brain . 
Ye men of wit and wealth, why all this 

sneering 

Ye sons of old Kidie, assembled by Willie 

Yestereen I had a pint o' wme 

Ye true -Loyal Natives.' attend to my sonj 



Yon wnnd'ring rill, that marks the hill. 
Yon wild mossy mountains sue lofty i 

wide . 

Young Jamie, pride of a' the plain . 
Young Jockey was the blythest lad 
Young Peggy blooms our bonniest lass . 
Your News and Review, Sir, I've r< 

through and through, Sir 
Your rosy cheeks are turn'd so wan 
You're welcome to Despots, Dumourier 
You're welcome, Willie Stewart . 









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